Jet
by G12G4
Summary: The young ne'er-do-well son of a wealthy Englishman meets a female Salvation Army Sergeant Major in an encounter that will change the course of both their lives. Based on the song by the same title. Rated M for depictions of drug use.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

The delicate silver button transferred the chill of untouched metal onto his forefinger - a sensation Jet did not find altogether unpleasant. It reminded him that he was alive; a memory that, for the moment at least, was welcome - but only for the moment and that moment passed almost as instantly as it had come. He gazed at the liquid in the small glass tube, watched it as the plunger displaced it into the needle. He felt it flow into his veins followed by the warmth. That glorious warmth that moved quickly from the sticking point to his chest and stomach and then his head and limbs - from his fingertips to his toes. Now the pain, the memories were gone in the medicine's warm embrace. Jet's mouth twisted into a slack smile. He turned his head to his friend.

"See, I told you it was good stuff - and it's not addictive like laudanum." His friend grinned back, pushing the plunger down on his own syringe. "Ahhh..." he sighed as the drug coursed through his body.

"Heroin, you said?" Jet had trouble forming the words properly.

"Yeah, from Germany." Arthur replied. "My father's business partner brought it over to try."

"Well it works." Jet slid down the backboard of the bed until his head rested on the pillow. Arthur let his head roll back against the crest of the arm chair and laughed at his friend. His head lolled from side to side against the chair back. Suddenly, he jerked forward and heaved. Jet slowly turned his head to face his compatriot with a slightly arched eyebrow.

"You oll korrect, mate?" he drolled with no great urgency. Arthur was doubled over, retching and clutching his stomach. Arthur turned up his face to his friend, it appeared drawn and pale, but a smile was stretched across it.

"I will be fine, mate, it will pass in a moment."

"Whatever you say, Artie." Jet turned his attention back to the moldings on the ceiling, he had never really noticed them before - not since his youth anyway - but now his eyes once again lovingly caressed those intricate twists and turns. He raised his hand toward them, tracing the curving lines with his finger. Arthur stopped retching and the two young men lapsed into silence.

It was some time later that Jet became aware of a breach of the soundless peace enveloping him. From his right he heard what he began to understand to be uproarious laughter. He slowly turned his head to see Arthur wrapped in a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

Jet lazily propped himself up upon his elbow. "What's so funny?" he slurred. Arthur took a deep breath to collect himself and, for a moment, it seemed to work; but as he raised his head to speak he broke into another fit. "Oh come off it!" Jet exclaimed, hurling a pillow in Arthur's direction. Arthur raised his hand, pointing upward, the other he put on his chest as he finally slowed his breathing enough to speak.

"I can almost remember exactly their funny faces." he panted.

"What are you talking about?"

"That time you said you would be marrying soon." Arthur explained. "As I recall your father was as bold as that sergeant major - he was ready to disinherit you on the spot in front of the entire dinner party... He was correct, you know, she was only marrying you for your money."

"I suppose so." Jet allowed.

"I don't know what lapse in your judgement enticed you to put yourself in such a disgraceful position with such a course, common woman as that. Wasn't she one of those "suffragettes" as well?"

"Yes." He answered through clenched teeth.

"She was nothing to look at either, as I recall - but it's always the ugly birds that make the most noise - and a gawdawful racket she made! Cawing here about the Rights of Women, crowing there about saving those degenerates - like you and I mate - from our sins." Here his voice took on a higher pitch, "'Oh you may be poor on earth but in heaven you'll wear a crown of finest gold in jewels - have some soup.' Oh what was her name - it was something ugly, like a fat old cow."

"It was Bertha."

"Oh right - Bertie! As Thomas once said to Richard, mate: 'She's peevish, she's theivish, she's ugly, she's old, and a liar, and a fool, and a slut, and a scold.' You should thank the lot of us for delivering you from her deliverance."

Jet did not answer this indictment. His hands clenched the bedsheets on both sides of his form. He feared what he would say were he to lose his tongue. Would he mock his childhood friend, insult him, defend the woman? Would he scream as a madman - with no intelligible voice but volume? If he did not grip the bed would his hands then place their hard grasp around Arthur's throat? If he attempted to speak would his words fail him completely? Would he fall to the floor sobbing like a infant? Already he felt a sob come up, but he stifled it. His eyes he shut tightly to block the tears which stung them. Arthur seemed to interpret Jet's lack of response to mean he had nodded off. "Cheers mate." he saluted his friend with a raised glass of emerald liquid, drained it, and poured himself another. Sometime later Jet heard the sound of the glass as it shattered upon the floor. Without a witness to observe them, the tears which had scorched his eyelids finally found their path across his cheeks to soft pillow beneath. Almost soundlessly the tune, that song they had sung on the bridge before the infinite expanse of stars above and below them

"The young May moon is beaming, love..." the words were lost as his voice caught in stifled sobs. "... and the best of all ways to lengthen our days is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear."


	2. Chapter 1

"Ha ha ha!" The boys stumbled from the rough hewn doorway out onto the chipped grey bricks of the street. They were both dressed in a manner that was instantly out of place for their humble surroundings, yet was often seen emerging from those particular quarters. The sandy haired youth in the blue waistcoat with brass buttons - that was threatening to abandon its owner's shoulders entirely at any moment - took a long swig from a brown glass bottle, gave a whoop, and threw it to the ground smashing it on the pave stones.

"Aw Jet! You didn't leave none for me!" The reddish blond haired one whined.

"Then go give the man your glasses for another case."

"But I need those to read!" the reddish blond haired one protested.

"Oh, like you do a good deal of that!" Jet replied. "Artie the scholar: the reader of great books and doer of fantastic deeds! Go get us another case." Arthur took the glasses from his inside pocket and looked hesitantly at them. Just then he cocked his head.

"Do you hear that music?" Arthur asked. Jet stopped tugging at his morning coat to listen.

"Nah, you're hearin' things you daft fool." Jet waved an arm in dismissal and turned to head down the street.

"I am not, hear! It's getting louder." Arthur exclaimed grabbing Jet's sleeve.

"Oy you're right!" Jet stopped to listen. "Blimey! It's gawdawful! What in the world is making that racket!" The boys followed the bright cacophony down a side alley to a wooden fence. Jet was the first to reach it and hoisted himself up to see over. At the end of the street he saw a crowd walking down toward the market. The blue-trimmed red banner with the great yellow star in the center being hoisted by the marchers in navy blue uniforms - some playing tambourines and tubas, even an accordion (each according to his own "talents" Jet laughed to himself) - were unmistakable. As were the crowd of dingy looking men behind them hoisting up their own darkly grinning banner as well as a few dead rats on sticks that, even from this distance, appeared quite ripe. Arthur arrived at his side. "Artie, it's the Salvationists! Let's see if we can't have a little fun." Jet lifted himself over the barrier and ran towards the street, followed closely by his friend.

They reached the square only slightly ahead of the Salvationists. One of the men set up a large drum and began to beat it while the others gathered about a man who appeared to be the leader. He was a tall dark haired man with a great imperial mustache. The man stood in front of the gathering crowd and stretched his arms wide "My good people -" he began.

"Good my foot!" came the a voice from the back. Jet and Arthur turned to see a stocky mill worker tossing an egg up and down in his hand. The speaker had not even glanced to acknowledge the man - a slight which infuriated the millworker.

"The Lord has promised-"

"You can shove those promises where the sun don't shine!" the man threw the egg with great force at the speaker. His aim was true; a large splotch of blue paint stained the speaker's left cheek. Still the speaker persisted. The crowd pressed in closer to the Salvationists as more objects and curses flew. From the back of the crowd crude songs were sung in mockery of those common to the Salvationists. Jet picked up a wad of dirt "C'mon!" he waved Arthur to follow him into the throng. The two weaved through the crowd until they found themselves, unexpectedly, on the other side with the Salvationists. Jet grabbed a hold of Arthur's arm and pulled him low,

"Get down!" he hissed, a tomato whizzed above Arthur's head.

"Good catch, mate!" Arthur replied. Jet scanned the group for a proper target. There, not too far from him, stood a stocky woman.

"Oy Artie! How much you bet I can nail that plump biddy over there?" He pointed to the woman.

"Two shillings."  
>"Only two?! At this distance it's worth at least a pound."<p>

"Well, she's not exactly a small target, nor a moving one. Five shillings, take it or leave it."

"Five it is then." Jet and Arthur shook hands briefly to seal the wager. Jet took aim and threw, striking the woman squarely on the side of her bonnet with a clod of dirt which disintegrated on impact. Her head snapped to face the direction the missile had come. Her eyes narrowed at the boys who were doubling over in laughter. She spun on her heel and strode confidently toward them.

"Five shillings!" Arthur slapped the money into Jet's hand.

"Thanks, mate. Pleasure doing business with you." Jet shook his partner in crime's hand.

"Oh ho! You're in trouble now - she's heading straight for us." Jet looked up to see the woman approaching them, her rounded features were fixed in a hard glare.

"She's bold, that one." Jet remarked sidewise to Arthur.

"Well, I suppose we will just have to teach her some proper manners." Arthur replied with a twisted smile, that lecherous look shining from his green eyes. The woman stopped short in front of the boys.

"I am sorry to tell you, but I believe I have ruined your clod of dirt. You see, it came flying so quickly in my direction, rather unannounced, that I had no chance to save it from its dismal fate. I offer you its remains." With that, she dusted off her hands in front of the boys, stuck up her nose, and turned to walk away in the opposite direction. Arthur's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist tightly, turning her. She pulled to get away from his grasp but, slight as he was, Arthur was powerful.

"Where are you going in such a hurry?" he sneered.

"If you would kindly unhand me, then you shall know by observation." Arthur pulled her in to face him - she was almost pressed against his chest and his coat lapel brushed against her, quivering dangerously. Now he had drawn himself to his full height. Crouched, as he and Jet had been, the woman had likely mistaken them for older boys, she saw her error now. Arthur stood a full head above her and Jet - who circled her - only a few inches below that.

"My she is a bold one." Jet whispered in an oily tone like a snake hissing into her ear.

"I wonder, are you one of those reformed whores we keep hearing so much about?" The woman strained against his hold but the vise of his grip only tightened.

"Let me be 'sir', before I forget my manners." This was an empty threat and Arthur knew it, he easily had the upper hand.

"I believe my dear friend and I would like nothing better than if you did." Jet replied, his hand brushed the hem of her dress. The woman turned her eyes to the sky.

"My Lord will protect me wherever I go. He is my help and my strength. He will not abandon me!" Arthur looked left and right, then squarely into those eyes which still shone bravely.

"My dear, it appears he already has." With his other arm Arthur clutched her to his body tightly, his hand ran up and down the length of her body and he let out a stuttered sigh. "Jet, catch!" He flung the woman backwards into Jet's open arms. Jet grasped her tightly, her face was white, her eyes looking up just as bold and brassy as ever, but in his arms he felt her body fluttering with terror, like that of a baby bird.

"Alright, let's see what kind of woman we have here." Arthur proclaimed as his hand slithered up her dress to her thigh.

"No!" Jet exclaimed, turning his body round to protect the woman.

"Oh ho! What's this now? Is she not good enough for you? C'mon lad - we've plowed many a fallower field." Jet found himself scrambling for an answer, but one presented itself in the errant body of a rat, flung slightly too far off from the main crowd.

"There are too many people here, if we were spotted engaging in such... sport... with a woman such as her it could cause a scandal." Arthur paused to ponder this argument.

"Well one more wouldn't hurt." Arthur eagerly made to undo himself.

"No." Jet repeated in a more authoritative tone and indicated with his head to the crowd in the center of the square which had now become a rather violent mob. Arthur took in the scene for a moment, sighed heavily, and did himself back up.

"I suppose it is beneath my dignity." He turned to face the scene with his hands on his hips as Jet released the woman. She had only gone a step when Arthur's hand painfully seized hers and yanked her to face him again. Jet's heart froze. "And you - " he sneered, "learn some manners!" He sent her sprawling into a pile of manure and spat in her direction. Jet and Arthur watched as she picked herself up and walked back to her people, wobbling slightly, but still with dignity. "What a frigid little slut." he remarked to Jet as she rejoined her people. Arthur looked to him, "Well come on, you owe me." and with that the two exited the market square as the Constable arrived to break up the scene.


	3. Chapter 2

Jet walked to the enormous gaping maw that was the entrance to the hall. He shifted uncomfortably in his suit tugging at the front to help it lie flatter. He scarcely acknowledged the tall man who relieved him of his coat. He unconsciously tested his cufflinks - each gold encasing a single shining black stone - a gift from Arthur, in reference to his nom de guerre he had joked. Jet took a deep breath and began his descent down the large stairway into the ballroom.

"Lord Chester Jenkins Moore III" the man announced to the crowd. There was a general nod of acknowledgement from some members of the crowd who immediately turned their attentions back to their conversations. At the bottom of the stairwell an older gentleman approached him and bowed slightly.

"Lord Moore, how was your trip to the south?" the man inquired politely.

"It was very diverting. I availed myself of the opportunity to observe some of the new farming techniques. There are a few new models of plow I am very interested in purchasing and I was quite impressed by their performance."

"Ah, Lord Moore, you never did learn how to take a proper holiday - always letting your mind get in the way of things." Jet held out his hands in submission.

"I suppose I am guilty, Lord Danvers, but if I am to manage the affairs of the estate I must be vigilant. I can rest once all is properly in order."

"Aye, that will never be!" Lord Danvers admonished his junior. "Enjoy your youth while you have it, you have my word, it will not last." He rested his hands on his round stomach as though to prove the point.

"I shall take your words to heart Lord Danvers. Will you please excuse me." Jet bowed slightly and walked over to a middle-aged lady who stood with her hand on the shoulder of a gentleman in a wheeled chair. He bent slightly to address the man. "With your permission, may I borrow the Lady Greenley for a dance?" The man smiled and nodded his assent. Jet offered his hand to the lady who readily accepted it and led her out onto the floor.

"How is the good Sir Greenley these days?" Jet inquired as he turned the lady about the floor.

"He is well. though he has been a bit dejected as the babies have grown so - they are no longer merely content to spend the day sitting on their father's lap listening to stories of the treacherous Boers."

"And what of you? Are you adjusting to life in England?"

"I do not see how I have much option in the matter. Africa will always be my first home, but I am growing accustomed to the English way of life. Though I must admit it is far too rainy for my taste."

"And the children?"

"They are too young to know any different life. They are happy, of course. I suppose I will soon need to employ of Governess to see to their education." she sighed heavily.

"I will keep a look out for qualified candidates." Jet said reassuringly. The song ended and Jet escorted the lady back to her husband. "Thank you, my Lady, for the dance." He said, releasing her hand.

"I'm sure I should be the thankful one." The gentleman replied with a grin. "Never much cared for dancing, my poor lady has suffered my two left feet for far longer than she has suffered my loss of them." Jet allowed a smile at Sir Greenley's irreverent treatment of his grievous injury. "I'm sure she was quite honored to take a turn around the floor with such a fine young lad as yourself. It gives the ladies something of a distinction among her peers."

"Then let us agree we are all of us grateful for our continued friendship." Jet granted. "I must inquire, how has business fared for you this summer?"

"The gem trade has proved excellent this year, though we did lose one ship off the Cape."

"And what of that canal business?"

"I must say since we have taken control of the area it has been much smoother than dealing with those French. Our Oriental market has been *ahem* most profitable." At this remark Lady Greenly placed a delicate hand upon her husbands shoulder,

"Darling, it's gauche to discuss business at a dance." He coughed and sputtered.

"Quite right my dear, quite right." he assented. "My apologies Lord Moore."

"No offense taken, Sir Greenley, after all I am the one to blame - it was I who made the inquiry."

"I was meaning to ask you about accompanying me on a fishing expedition -" Sir Greenley was interrupted by the announcer.

"Lord Arthur Wyndham, Duke of B_." A hush fell over the room. Down the stairs Arthur descended in am almost sideways manner, the very picture of high society fashion from his brightly shining pointed shoes to his silk top hat. The lights of the ballroom reflected of his diamond topped walking stick creating a momentary dazzling effect upon anyone who looked upon it. He smiled widely at the crowd and condescended to give a small, good-natured bow of his head to the audience. Then he waved his hand at the musicians indicating that they might continue at which point they struck a spritely tune and many of the couples returned to dancing.

"Pardon me, Sir Greenley, please send further details of the excursion to my house for me to examine."  
>"Very good!" the older gentleman replied. Jet quickly extricated himself from the pair and aimed himself for a group of young ladies gathered around the tall Duke. Jet gripped Arthur's arm with his gloved hand,<p>

"Save me!" he hissed into his friend's ear.

"Not enjoying yourself? Tsk, you never were one for a party." The Duke winked in reply. "Let's see if I can assist in furthering your discomfort." He turned his attention back to the ladies. "My dear ladies," Arthur raised his arms expansively as though bequeathing a benevolent gift upon his followers. "This is my dear friend and compatriot Lord Chester Jenkins Moore III. Lord Moore, this is the lovely Miss Katherine Williams," he indicated an open faced auburn haired beauty who curtsied. "Miss Geraldine Foxham" a small featured raven haired woman inclined her head. "Now now, Miss Foxham, don't be rude." he teasingly scolded. She performed a deep curtsy that Jet could only interpret as sarcasm, he indulged her with a half smile and a deep bow with a flourishing hand. "Countess Angelina Erlyton." a plainfaced but shapely blonde woman gracefully lowered herself in a curtsy. "And of course, my darling Bernice Mareton." He proclaimed raising her hand in his and reflecting her beaming gaze. Of the group she was easily the most comely with shining brown hair gathered upon her head finished with ringlets and small rosettes. She had all the radiance of a woman enraptured in her first great love. Jet observed her gown with a smirk as Arthur and Bernice joined the other revelers on the dance floor. The neckline was cut so low as to almost be scandalous and, in case the viewer did not notice, a large red gem dangled from her neck, resting gently on her chest - Jet had to acknowledge Arthur was, in this manner, a model gentleman - his eyes never waivered from her face. The waist was cinched tightly, the slippers too prominent in shade, there were far too many bows and ribbons of fabric and lace borders attached as though the family were begging for their wealth to be acknowledged. The noveau riche, he chuckled. He had never heard of the Mareton family before and it was instantly clear as to why - they were attempting to climb the social ladder and prostituting their daughter in exchange for a faster climb. Of course Arthur would take full advantage of their lack of scruples, if only to teach them a lesson in respect. Likely, her innocent glow would be but a memory by the end of the season; never mind the end of the season - he corrected himself - it would likely be gone by the end of the night. Arthur never was one to suffer fools. He heard a short, mocking laugh from beside him. There stood Miss Foxham.

"How long do you think she has?" She remarked caustically.

"How long did it take for you?" Jet replied without looking over. He knew he had struck the heart of the issue by the sharp intake of breath he heard in response.

"Why is he allowed to continue in such a scandalous manner?" It seemed she had misperceived Jet as an ally; she could not have been more mistaken. Jet turned to face her, his face as black as his namesake.

"I wonder who you are to judge a man for accepting what a woman offers him of her own free will. You have no right to speak against him, you are but the daughter of an upstart speculator who made a few good gambles - and you thought you were worthy of his hand in matrimony! No man here would fault him for casting aside a woman of so low character as yourself. He has been generous enough to spare you the humiliation a whore such as yourself has earned. Be gone from my sight and don't speak a further word on the matter to anyone or I shall expose you to the ridicule and derision you deserve. You are nothing more than a six-cent strumpet who should consider herself honored to have known the caresses of a Duke. Or did you give it away for free?" he enunciated every syllable so that, even though he had never raised his voice above a whisper, the full impact of the words could be felt. Lady Foxham stared in utter disbelief and shock, then the full weight of what was said sunk in. She turned away quickly and walked over to the side room. Though she never shed a tear in his presence, from the fluttering movements of her hands around her face, Jet could tell she was weeping. The proper tears of a fallen woman he thought. How dare she even presume to think she was worthy to address a gentleman - particularly in such a familiar manner! And she believed she had the right to accuse Arthur of scandalous behavior? These course people who believed sudden wealth made them worthy of acknowledgement disgusted him. He took a glass of champagne from the server's tray and returned to the company of Lord Danvers - the so-called "ladies" at this event were scarcely worth his attention.

"My boy, you seem distracted." Lord Danvers remarked after having gone on for a number of minutes on a topic Jet had not followed in the slightest.

"Oh sorry," Jet replied placing a hand gingerly on his brow. "I seem to have developed something of a headache."

"Perhaps you should find some young lady to dance with - it will get your blood flowing. And they are all such pretty girls, such a selection of lovelies I could only wish had been collected in one place in my youth." Lord Danvers suggested helpfully.

"No, no thank you. While they may hold the eye the interest is another story."

"You are far too picky my boy, one would think you desired the solitary life."

"If being a bachelor all my days saves from from the discomfort of a course, ill-tempered, imprudent wife; then so be it."

"My you are harsh on the fairer sex." Lord Danvers chuckled.

"Do you seriously believe me in error?" Jet replied archly. Lord Danvers thought for a moment before he solemnly answered,

"No. There are many women who would make a man yearn for his lonely days. Women who chase a man from their bedrooms into those of others. Who through neglect and bad temper lead a man into a life of sin or miserable solitude. Or those insipid creatures who disgrace him at every turn and lead his children down shameful paths. And there are even those terrible women who make of their man a cuckold raising a dark eyed child not his own. These women who make the household a barren wasteland and a hearth a hell. But then there are those women who brighten the corners of every room they enter, who can warm the soul from the deepest chill, the women who compliment us so completely as to make a half into a whole. Like my dearly departed Jane, or your mother, Mary. Goodly women who remind you that you cannot abandon the sex entirely."

"Such women seem to be an endangered species, I have yet to meet one outside of my household." Jet responded darkly.

"Well perhaps you merely have not been looking properly." Lord Danvers suggested with a wink and a nod to the staircase.

"Count Frederick Mason, Countess Hilda Mason, Miss Ingrid Mason." The announcer pronounced. Jet looked towards the staircase to behold the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. She was tall and slender with a graceful long neck. He skin was pale as milk and her long flaxen hair sat, exotically braided, atop her elegant head. Her eyes were clear and blue as the sky on a clear day. Her white and blue dress only complimented those eyes. She smiled widely at the crowd below - it was as if the sun, itself, had decided to grace those below with its presence.

"She is exquisite! Did they say 'Miss'?" Jet asked Lord Danvers eagerly, though he could not turn to face his conversation partner for he had yet to find the wherewithal to turn away.

"Yes, it seems your ears have begun working properly again." Lord Danvers joked.

"Did the say her father is Count Mason? Why have I never heard of her?"

"Her mother is a Swede, she insisted the child have a proper Swedish upbringing rather than languishing under the smoke of London."

"I must say, seeing the result, I can agree with the wisdom of that idea." Jet allowed himself to smile. "Lord Danvers, you are familiar with the family, how do you suggest I approach her?" Lord Danvers smiled.

Some minutes later Lord Danvers had managed to bring Jet in front of the young lady.

"Miss Mason, how lovely it is to see you again." he said taking her hand.

"My dear Lord Danvers! It has been far too long. I believe you were much taller on our last visit" she replied in accented tones.

"Ah yes, I suppose I have shrunk since." The two laughed. "Anyhow, I have a friend I should like you to meet," he said gesturing to Jet. "This is my business partner, the young Lord Chester Jenkins Moore III."

"It is a pleasure to meet you Lord Moore." she beamed offering him her hand. He gently took it in his own with a low bow.

"Du är väldigt vacker i kväll." he replied. Her face flushed deeply and she put her hand to her mouth to cover a giggle. Jet was suddenly panicked. "What? what did I say?" He begged Lord Danvers. The young lady approached him and gently whispered in his ear,

"You are very beautiful tonight." Now it was Jet's turn to blush. She giggled at his reaction. "Thank you, Lord Moore, I am most flattered that you would pay me such a compliment."

"It is no flattery," he said, regaining his charm. "It is merely the truth as I observe it." Miss Mason had now turned a fine shade of pink. "If you are willing, would you care to accompany me to the dance floor?" The lady nodded in assent.

The morning bells had begun to chime by the time Jet escorted Ingrid and her parents to her carriage and waved them off. It seemed his heart would soar from his chest. Such a lovely lady, and so accomplished! The daughter of a Count no less! He would have to thank Lord Danvers - the man's irreverence sometimes made Jet forget the shrewd businessman his father had long ago chosen for a partner - that old man was always one step ahead of the game. He made his way to the balcony to watch the rising sun and was quite surprised to find Arthur leaning upon the thick stone balustrade staring blankly at the horizon.

"I thought for sure you would be nestled in bed with your lady friend by this hour." Jet remarked. Arthur's gaze remained fixed outward. "Pass me a drink." Without looking over Arthur handed him a flask from his inside pocket; Jet took a swig of the reddish brown stuff.

"As did I, old chap." he replied absently.

"Did she turn you down?"

"Oh no, she was quite eager. But my heart wasn't in it so I sent her home."

"You sent - you sent her home!" Jet stuttered. "Since when has your heart ever had anything to do with it?"

"Since now, I suppose." Arthur mused. "Where was Elizabeth tonight?"

"She's home with a cold." Jet answered offhandedly. "Oh... I see."

"It was the first ball since Philomena married; I was hoping to finally see her properly in society where she belongs."

"If it brings you any cheer she was horribly disappointed to miss it. She has been so long delayed in coming out! But father would not have it until Philomena was properly wed - I thought sure Elizabeth would be an old maid before he finally gave up on Philomena's nuptials. I must say I have found my new brother to be a rather dull sort - but then, I am surprised anyone took her at all." Arthur feigned horror at Jet's words.

"Do not insult Lord Norbert! It cost a princely sum to encourage him to even consider her - she is the odd sort, you know, not mad per se, but odd in her way... in the set of her eyes and the form of her mouth. Nothing to entice in looks either - there can be no question: your father's face is much better suited to members of the male gender." At this remark both gentlemen briefly chuckled.

"Ah, so that is how it happened. It did seem strangely sudden. You really love her that much?" probed Jet.

"Nonsense! It was merely done in the service of a friend who would otherwise have been saddled with her care and... Yes, I truly do." His tone was serious now. "Every sin I have ever committed in my life I intend to make up for in my devotion to her. I shall be a slave to her happiness."

"You have been a slave to her happiness since the moment she curled those tiny plump fingers around yours." Jet grinned at the memory.

"She was so small then, and yet I could barely hold her for her weight - which would be nothing now but to a mere child as I was... As I recall she had a nasty predilection for punching you in the nose."

"She still does, I'm afraid to say. My nose has suffered greatly from her abuses these past 20 years." Jet smiled, rubbing his nose. "So when can I expect to call you my brother?"

"I suspect by the end of the season - if she consents, of course." Arthur replied.

"So, the end of the season then, as I have no doubt in her acceptance of your proposal."

"I wish I could be so certain. All of my indiscretions, my habits, have never been a secret to her - it would be a challenge to ask her to accept one who has made himself so low." Arthur took a draught from the flask.

"She loves you, Arthur! No one adores you as she! There is no crime you could commit that she would not forgive you! She would follow you to hell, if you asked, and make a heaven of it for you."

"Yes, she would follow me to hell..." Arthur looked back to the horizon where the sun was fully above the hills now. Jet attempted to change the subject.

"I believe the largest obstacle you face is gaining father's approval. He does not believe a man should marry before he is thirty. He says a young man is often a fool in love and will follow his heart where reason would fear to trod; while an older man who is established in the world will properly weigh the consequences of a match."

"Perhaps that is where long acquaintance and title will win the day. There is no sense in delaying the inevitable. Besides, it will greatly raise the rank of your family and business to be so closely tied to a Duke." Arthur said with some sense of assurance. "I imagine your father's rule will make things quite difficult for you and that elegant Swedish swan you passed the evening with." Arthur glanced over at Jet with an arched eyebrow.

"She is perfection! If it were my decision we would wed tomorrow - but alas Gretna Green is no place for the business of being bound to one so wonderful. Still there is something to be said for delay - it allows for defects to make themselves apparent."

"Ah, so you don't fully accept her perfection?" Arthur smiled mockingly.

"I have never been one for willful blindness, though I do admit if she promises to be even half as good as she has presented herself to be there is no question on it being a very propitious match."

"Then I congratulate you." Arthur raised the flask to the sky before taking another dram. He offered the bottle to Jet.

"And I you, my soon-to-be brother." Jet slapped him on the back and emptying the bitter contents into his mouth.


	4. Chapter 3

The ball bounced gently just before the line and then over it. The racket passed by the spot where it had crossed a moment too late. "I believe that's game, mate." Jet grinned from his position on the opposite side of the court, leaning gently on his racket. Arthur tossed the errant ball in the air and caught it behind his back.

"Hodgson, bring us a drink." Arthur called out to the servant who waited at the sidelines.

"I suppose I'm off my game today, mate." Jet said by way of an apology.

"The score would seem to indicate that." Arthur teased. "Something on your mind?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary, I suppose." he answered. "Tired from last night - I won't say you were right in leaving the game before its conclusion; but I can't fault you in your valuing of sloth over avarice." He took a sip from the glass Hodgson had brought over.

"How long did the game continue after I took my leave?" Arthur inquired.

"Oh hours! Until we had bled the bloke dry. Run of bad luck that one had. Most of us wanted to call it a night but he begged us 'Just one more game! Just one more!' Of course Lord James was in his glory - once property rights went on the table his scruples went out the door."

"I suppose that 'conversation' we had with Lord James about his playing techniques was forgotten entirely?"

"In totality. No sense in stopping him though - the man was intent on ruining himself. At least Lord James sped up the process."

"Seems there is a use for his kind after all." Arthur smirked. "How did you make out?"

"Only a few hundred, but it will be useful on my trip to London next week." Jet took a sip of his drink.

"Business or pleasure this time?" inquired Arthur.

"I'm not sure I prefer the former without a touch of the latter - though in this case I believe both will be readily accomplished." Jet replied.

"Going to see Lord and Lady Cox then?" Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, and I must thank you for the introduction. While I initially found her unnatural proclivities and voracious appetites off-putting; I have since learned to appreciate their hidden values. And as the Lord's match the Lady's I cannot find any grounds to object to her charms - certainly he has encouraged me in that arena - and have taken great pleasure in indulging her whims. Though, I can very honestly say, there would be no amount of money you could pay me to spend the day as his valet." At this statement the two men laughed heartily.

"Do you think Miss Mason would object to your choice of leisurely activities?" Arthur glanced at Jet slyly.

"I wouldn't doubt that she would - but there is no need for her to be aware of such things. It is only the affairs of gentlemen, after all. I'm quite sure you would not tell Elizabeth all your doings." Jet answered.

"On the contrary, I keep no secrets from her. She is fully aware of my nature and dalliances. It is the only way I can protect her from those who would seek our separation."

"Since you mention it, Miss Foxham laid a rather serious charge against you at the dance last month."

"She said this to you?"

"Yes, and I gave her to know such intimations were not acceptable and that it would be in her best interest to desist in her accusations." Jet replied; Arthur looked thoughtfully at the glass.

"This is certainly true. Her bitterness is justified but the proclamation of the cause of it will only bring her downfall."

"Well, she was the one who allowed herself to be tempted." Jet answered.

"Also true, but I did promise to marry her if she gave in." Arthur said offhandedly.

"You seriously proposed to her?" Jet stared at his friend, astonished.

"Oh no, I was never serious. It was merely a means to an end - a challenge to be conquered by the muscle of the mind over the muscle of the arm. She was a fool to accept that a proposal that was only known to her and I would be in any way binding once the deed was accomplished. Scandal has thus far bought her silence, but she has obviously proven to be unequal to the task of discretion. It truly is a shame that she lacks even the most basic animal sense of self-preservation but seeks her own ruination." Arthur told this tale without even the vaguest hint of remorse, rather his tone was one of general disgust. "If not for the effort required in obtaining the conquest I should feel wholly ashamed that I denigrated myself with a female of such low upbringing."

"It is fortunate your quest did not result in offspring." Jet proposed.

"I will not deny that - an illegitimate child is troublesome enough; but to have that child born of a mother who lacks a proper sense of propriety is rather an unpleasantness I care not to repeat." Arthur returned. Jet was struck dumb - he stared at his friend trying to find his voice, but his mouth only moved wordlessly, gaping much like a fish that has suddenly found itself on the shore. For all their years of friendship this was a revelation. Arthur glanced over at his comrade and let a sly smile cross his lips. Jet found his voice.

"Repeat? You mean there is a child?" He rasped.

"Oh yes, I'm a bit surprised I neglected to mention it before." It seemed Arthur was quite pleased with the affect this information was having on Jet.

"Who is the mother?"

"Miss Eloise Gilbert. A rather unsuitable choice, I will admit - but, as my part in the matter was rather brief, I had not truly considered her fitness." Arthur frowned slightly.

"Miss Gilbert? I can scarcely recall her" Jet thought hard for a moment to locate the memory. "It's been years since she's been to any society event, hasn't it?"

"Six years, approximately." Arthur supplied.

"Yes! I recall her now - she was quite the toast of the town the season she came out. Very lovely and mild in manner from a wealthy military family. I had wondered what became of her... I suppose I have no need to wonder further."

"She was lovely, but mild of manner... I beg to disagree with you on that point. She possessed an initially unforeseen passionate nature - much the same as her father. She and her father came by the house some months after I knew her, fat with child, and making accusations that I was the responsible party. Her father demanded I marry her as soon as arrangements could be made in order to save myself from scandal. Young as I was, I likely would have acquiesced out of fear if not for my own father's wise intervention." Jet could not help but picture the meeting of the belligerent General Gilbert with the imperturbable, yet fierce, Duke Wyndham. "Father made very clear that no such arrangements would ever be made - that his son would never be tied to such a licentious woman. Of course, General Gilbert demanded satisfaction but Father merely dismissed his demand by reminding him that should Father kill him than there would be no one to guard his daughter from the life her lack of morals had purchased for her and that were he to try to raise a scandal against our family it would only expose his daughter's condition and leave the family's reputation in ruin - a condition undesirable with two younger daughters still to come out." Arthur smirked at his father's wisdom.

"What became of the child?" Jet's curiosity was piqued.

"Her father recommended the child be put up for adoption so that she might still be matched with a suitable young man - a soldier, perhaps - but she would not hear of it. She refused to part with the child and carried it around for months for fear it would be stolen from her were she to let it out of her arms for a moment. She arrived at the house one day, quite mad, insisting that I see the child. Of course, I would not indulge the ravings of such a woman and had her sent away but oh! How she screamed as they forced her from the grounds! Her illness became such that they had to lock her away in the house. They claim the child to be that of a servant and his wife, orphaned by cholera and charitably adopted by Gen. Gilbert - as sensible a conclusion as could be reached under the circumstance." Arthur finished.

"Well that's a pity, for she seemed such a fine girl. Is Elizabeth aware of even this?" Jet remarked.

"Yes, she has been aware from the first. I would never hide such a secret from her, lest she find out my deceit at a later date from a yet unknown interloper and despise me. Do you still think me a suitable match for her?"

"If she has no objections I cannot see why I should; as for me I would rather call you my brother than any other man." He offered his hand to Arthur. The two men clasped hands briefly in a sign of their continued fraternity.

"Mark my words:" Arthur advised as he walked back to the boundary line. "Stick with the whores and the married ladies. For the former can never prove the parentage of the child and the latter has every reason not to."

"Like Lady Cox." Jet winked, taking his position.

"Precisely." Arthur grinned. He bounced the ball a few times. A curiosity struck Jet.

"What is his name?" he asked.

"Who?" Arthur inquired absently.

"The child."

Arthur stopped for a moment and thought. "You know," He replied. "I haven't the foggiest. Love all." And with that he served the ball to Jet who promptly returned the gentle lob.


	5. Chapter 4

The air within the dingy white plaster walls of that well frequented, but oft maligned, establishment was thick with the flowery haze that emanated from the long narrow pipes of its patrons. Men lazed, barely conscious, in rough-hewn wooden bunks that lined the walls on both sides. Women, scarcely clothed, walked along the bunks; occasionally climbing in with some half senseless man who was perfectly content to accept their company in exchange for a few puffs off the pipe. If luck were with the woman her customer might fall into a sound slumber and she could avail herself of his personal property. The feculant den was infested by rats and fleas which found the warm, passive bodies a source of comfort and sustenance - the floor was ripe with their droppings. Recessed away from this scene was an alcove reserved for guests of means who had the desire for greater privacy. In this room was a larger circular bed, it possessed no bed frame and was heavily stained. The mattress was grey and worn thin. It appeared the only care the bed received was the occasional restuffing with straw. A thick, greasy red blanket was spread over it while an excessive spray of pillows of various shapes, sizes, and fabrics concealed where the bed met the wall. On the bed two women attended to a spare young man who lay propped up between them, taking a drag from his thin pipe, and holding each in opposite arms. The first woman was worthy of little note. Her tightly curled dark hair framed her piqued ashen face in a manner that, while not especially unpleasing, gave the impression of desperate poverty. Her eyes were great and dark with a vague hollowness. Her clothes, what little she wore, were grey and tattered with no ornamentation - it hung from her thin frame as a wet curtain over a wire cage. In age she could not have exceeded her early twenties yet she seemed much more worn and ravaged than her years would suggest. She kneeled next to the man with a hand stroking his bared chest. The second woman was quite the opposite of the first. Her figure was full to the point of near plumpness - she had no shame in it and bore it for all who passed by to see. Her sleek auburn hair shined as it cascaded in waves down her shoulders and back. Her eyes, though lined, glimmered and her rose colored lips glistened as she pressed them against the neck of the man repeatedly. He smiled lazily at her and stroked her hair then he took another drag. In such a place as this the magnificent Lady Cox was as shameless as only the most brazen harlot. If this Stygian lair were not heaven, Jet mused, it was certainly as close as he ever cared to get.

From down the hall he vaguely heard what sounded like a scuffle - not an unusual occurrence in this place - yet there was something off about the tone. It didn't quite strike him as that of a man desperate for even the smallest sampling but unable to lay down so much as a penny for it, or the furious tones of a man who had lost his belongings to his temporary bedmate who haughtily denied her involvement in the matter. A gruff voice hollered, "Get out of my shop!" to which a ringing, high pitched voice answered "A shop, more like a den of robbers! And I shall just as happily turn you out as our Lord did the moneylenders at the temple. It is on His errand of mercy I am here. These people have been subjected to such a degenerate and miserable state that the fires of hell would likely seem a dear relief - and you stand as their tormentor!" the voice accused.

"Their tormentor!" the gruff voice howled with laughter. "My pet, I am their benefactor!"

"Some benefactor you are - when did these people last know a decent meal?" the voice seemed to be moving down the hallway.

"Well I'll bite little lady! Let us see for ourselves whether these poor sinners prefer my Hell to your Heaven."

"Ladies, gentlemen: I invite you to come to our meeting this evening and fill your bellies. There is no need to be ashamed, we are all children of God." She continued in this manner down the hall followed by lewd and obnoxious callbacks from the patrons. Finally the owner of the voice appeared in the alcove flanked by two men. She wore a naval blue uniform with shining buttons and brown gloves. Her black shoes were somewhat worn but highly polished. On her head she wore a stiff matching modest blue bonnet which was tied in a neat bow in the front. Her face was plump, as was the rest of her form, and softly framed by a halo of soft mouse brown ringlets. Her cheeks were round with a slight rose hue at the apples which, when placed in the context of her complexion, gave the overall impression of ripe peaches. Her mouth was fine with full lips reddened from the exertion of preaching. But it was her eyes that were her most arresting feature - they were deep, heavily lashed, and of the softest brown - like those of a fawn. The mere fact they were open wide staring with the little mouth momentarily agape only further cemented the impression of a baby animal to Jet. Apparently, the sight of Lady Cox had caught her by surprise. But this only lasted for a moment. Those fine eyes suddenly fixed on Jet and narrowed into slits and her small Irish nose scrunched up, those lips pursed as they enunciated one solitary syllable heavy with accusation: "You!"

"Oi, me?" Jet pointed at himself with good-natured surprise. The woman seemed to assume recognition, she approached the trio in a haughty manner, completely ignoring the other parties and addressing Jet directly.

"I see your friend is not with you today? Or is he indisposed?" She announced loftily looking at him from the side of her eye.

"My friend?" Jet could not hide his confusion in charm, the drug had retarded his wits entirely. She fixed an icy stare upon him causing an involuntary shiver to shoot down his spine.

"Oh, have you forgotten me? For I have not forgotten you or your accomplice." She arched an eyebrow and turned her little nose up away from him adding coyly, "And neither has my bonnet." He sat perplexed for a second, suddenly his eye flew open.

"Oi! Oi! It's you, the plump biddie from the rally in W-ing!" He heaved forward pointing a finger at her; displacing his companions. "What are you doing here?" She paced the room leisurely, kicking up her toes in a staccato motion with every step as she replied,

"Father felt it was no longer safe for me in the South with the Skeleton Army, so he sent me here."

"What? Because it's safer in a London brothel?!" Jet exclaimed. She glanced around the room and then allowed her eyes to rest on him,

"Relatively speaking, of course."

"Of course." Jet gave a half smile that was met with complete indifference. Finally, one of the men accompanying her spoke:

"Sergeant Major Bertha, do you know this man?" the bespectacled gentleman inquired. The realization of an audience caused a sudden change in Jet's tone.

"Woahoho Major! I didn't know I was in the presence of an officer." he made a mock salute, from her face it was evident she was not amused by his antics. "Major Bertie! Come into our presence to battle the demons for our souls." He relaxed back into the arms of his ladies. Major Bertha also seemed to become aware of their companions. Her tone became deathly serious.

"It's Sergeant Major Bertha to you and if I could physically battle demons for your souls I would gladly take up arms against them, but as it is I arm myself for the spiritual battle with the sword of the spirit, the shield of faith, and the helmet of salvation in the hope God will use me as a soldier in His war for your souls."

"Hang God!" ejaculated Jet with stunning force. The dark haired woman next to him was so scandalized by the sudden exclamation that she unconsciously made the sign of the cross over herself - a motion that was caught by the Sergeant Major. She gently approached the woman.

"Dear," she ventured tenderly. "If you find you are interested we are serving soup and bread in the square this evening, you are welcome to attend."

"I'm sorry, I'm quite sure she won't be able to attend your 'event' as I have retained her services for the evening." Lady Cox interjected. "Please be gone immediately, you are upsetting my guests."

"Unless you want you join us." Jet raised his eyebrows salaciously. "It would even the odds." He jerked his head towards the two men who, until this point, had been making every effort to avoid directly looking at the scandalous scene before them.

"If you can't join us tonight we will be serving supper all this week and we will be having a rally this Friday." the Sergeant Major continued reaching a hand out to the woman.

"Guard!" Lady Cox bellowed. A large man appeared behind the Salvationists. "Remove these interlopers immediately."

"And bring your children!" Bertha called out as the large man pulled her brusquely from the room.

"I will!" the dark haired woman cried back reaching for the other. There were the sounds of scuffling and the door slammed.

"Well, that was bothersome," Lady Cox sniffed. "You have children?" she asked the other woman. The woman looked at her hands.

"Yes ma'am, three."

"Do as I ask and they will eat for a month." Lady Cox placed her fingers under the woman's chin and pulled it close so their eyes were level. "Do we have an understanding?"

"Yes, ma'am." the woman replied. Lady Cox pulled her in and gave her a tender kiss. She pulled away from the woman with a smile.

"Good."


	6. Chapter 5

The day of the rally was clear and bright, almost in defiance of the usual grey pallor that covered the city. Whether impelled by unconscious intention or sheer coincidence, Jet's wanderings led him to a road parallel to the square. At first he thought nothing more of it than that the roads were becoming unusually crowded, then he heard the drums echoing off the walls of the alleys. "It's the Salvationist rally." he said to no one in particular "Well," he resolved. "Let's go have us a look." He turned into an alleyway and quickly found himself pushing and dodging through a mass of people, almost entirely people of the lower class - the dregs of society - some were interested in the message but more, it seemed, were there for the spectacle. As he approached the center of the square he saw the crowd had left a small circle around the Salvationists, of which there was only a small number easily less than twenty and at the head of the group, the good book firmly in her hand and loudly proclaiming the merits of the Kingdom of God, was the Sergeant Major.

"She's a fiery one, she is." he smiled, watching her perform from his vantage point.

"The house of the Lord has many rooms; enough for each and every one of you!" she announced. Two young men approached her, from their clothes Jet guessed if they held any job at all they were simple laborers as they wore faded, dirty overalls and only their shirtsleeves, newsboy caps crowned their heads. For a moment, looking at these men, Jet could not help but recall he and Arthur on that day three months back. All at once he felt a knot of unease in the pit of his stomach. The men called out something Jet couldn't understand as it was obfuscated by their heavy accents and the general roar of the crowd but from her reply, ringing clear as a bell, he was able to guess at the content.

"I thank you, but better men have tried and failed." He let a sharp laugh escape his lips 'I suppose she's referring to Artie and I.' he mused. These were not the words the men wished to hear, there could be no doubt such a pronouncement of their fitness (or lack thereof as it were) had wounded their pride. The events that followed seemed to occur in painfully slow motion to Jet and yet so quickly he scarcely had time to perceive them as they happened. The man on the right seemed to lean far to his right side, as though he were falling, but only so much that his hand brushed against the ground. That very hand, holding something square and grey, came up again in a great arc that passed across the side of the sergeant major's head. Her bonnet abandoned her head for the air above, the laces trailing across her face. Her head twisted sharply at an unnatural speed and angle in opposition to the hand. Her body leaned right and then crumpled slowly to the ground. Jet cried out and ran towards her shoving people from his path roughly. It seemed to him he was moving preternaturally slow, like he was running through molasses. The two men were laughing over the crumpled form of the woman, joking. The man on the right let the paving stone drop from his hand to return to the road which had supplied it. Finally, after what seemed an eternity but was measurable only in mere seconds, the mass released Jet in front of the men. In that moment time regained its normal pace.

"Oi!" He yelled to the men who turned. He caught the man on the right with a blow to the face hard enough to send him flying into the drummer who immediately expelled the unconscious form from his drum to the ground. The other man, seeing this display turned to flee but Jet caught him by his overall straps and threw him into the crowd where the man picked himself up and ran as one being chased by the devil himself. Jet knelt down at the side of the Sergeant Major's still form.

"Bertie, Bertie, wake up!' he shook her gently forgetting all formality. "Bertie are you all right?" She only lay in front of him, not moving. Jet turned her head to examine where the stone had hit and recoiled in horror. On the left side of her head was a large, deep gash. It almost looked as if her skull was dented. Her blood matted brown hair was plastered to her scalp. It seemed the blood kept bubbling up from the wound. Jet stared wild-eyed at his hands and saw the fingers of the left were coated in her warm red blood.

"Oh no Bertie!" He murmured. "Oh no no no. I need a Doctor!" He yelled. He tore at his coat searching for his inside pocket from which he produced a brown bottle. Holding it tightly he gripped the cork in his teeth and pulled it out. "C'mon Bertie, hold on." he pleaded emptying the contents of the bottle on the injury which still bled freely. He stripped off his coat entirely and bunched it up, pressing it against the ruined scalp. "Is anyone a Doctor?!" He looked up at the crowd. They were staring at him as though he were some strange and possibly dangerous creature. He became vaguely aware of how he must appear to them - a man, clearly a gentleman by dress, running into a crowd and violently assaulting two men as though he were possessed and then personally tending to a badly injured Salvationist woman bloodying his fine clothes in the process. Yet, at the moment, he could not bring himself to be self-conscious. "You there!" he pointed to a small boy who, in shock, pointed at himself. "I'll give you three pounds if you get fetch a Doctor and coach." The child's eyes grew wide as saucers at the promise of such instant wealth. He ran off as fast as his legs could travel ducking around people and crawling between legs. A few of the Salvationists approached the wild gentleman.

"Is there anything we can do?" the bespectacled man from before asked; clearly speaking for the group.

"Are you medically trained?" Jet inquired.

"No." the man answered solemnly.

"Well then," Jet spat sarcastically. "I would recommend you start praying." Then a thought crossed his mind. "Give me your glasses." The strange request startled the man.

"What?"

"Glasses please." without looking Jet raised his hand and twice made an opening and closing motion with it. The man placed his glasses into Jet's waiting palm. Jet examined them without a word and then put them in front of the Sergeant Major's lips. A very faint fog appeared on the glass. "Well, she's breathing." More of the Salvationists had gathered around her mouthing solemn prayers. "Move back!" he commanded. "If she's breathing you should let her have some air!" The Salvationists were taken aback by his caustic words, but he really didn't care - if they couldn't be of practical use he'd prefer they not be present at all.

It felt like an hour before the Doctor arrived, though it could not have been more than a quarter of one. He was an older man, slim, with wavy grey hair topped by a black bowler hay, a grey mustache, and small, round Pince Nez spectacles. In his hand he carried a sizable black bag in which he carried the tools of his trade. The child was not to be seen, no doubt he was fervently securing transport. Jet stood to greet the Doctor. "Chester Jenkins Moore." he said, extending his hand.

"Dr. Julian Lang." the Doctor replied, taking it. "Where's the patient?" Dr. Lang was not a man to mince words. Jet indicated towards the prone body of the Sergeant Major. Dr. Lang knelt down next to the woman and placed his bag on the ground next to him, snapping it open with one swift motion. "The child told me she was hit by a man -"

"Yes, with a paving stone." Jet interrupted.

"Where is the injury?"

"It's under my coat - the left side of her head. I poured a bottle of laudanum on it -" The Doctor shot him a look. "- You can castigate me later. How serious is it?" Dr. Lang carefully removed the coat from the injury, by now it was heavily bloodied and some of the dried matter had begun to crust and stick to her skin. The wound looked easily as bad as Jet had remember, if not worse for its temporary removal of blood.

"My my." the Doctor mumbled as he took a pair of tools from the bag and prodded the area. "this is a very grievous injury indeed." He applied a clamp to the spot that was burbling blood. He looked to Jet, "I can clean it and stitch it - but I cannot guarantee that she will live to see the morrow. Even if she does, it may still become infected. What is the patient's name?"

"Sergeant Major Bertha." Jet answered.

"And her family name?" Dr. Lang inquired.

"I- I don't know." Dr. Lang raised an eyebrow. He turned to the woman and patted her gently on the cheek.

"Bertha, Bertha." he gently called to her. There was no response. "I'll need to operate as soon as possible."

"Whatever you can do, sir."

"We need a place to do the surgery, somewhere stable where she can rest for a few days."

"I have an apartment at the Great Western Royal. You can do the procedure there - I'll make all the necessary arrangements." Jet supplied. The sharp ring of hoofbeats on the paving stones alerted Jet to the coach's arrival. He looked to the sound to see the beaming boy guiding the coachman's dalmatian to the square where he stopped. Jet strode up to him, "That's a good lad, here's what I promised plus one for speed." He let four gold sovereigns drop from his hand into the child's eagerly waiting cupped hands. "Now be off with you, this is no place for a child." Jet returned to the Doctor.

"We'll have to travel slowly so she isn't badly jostled. I'll need a few men to carry her." Dr. Lang stated. Jet faced the Salvationists:

"I need six strong men to lift her, who volunteers?" a dozen men raised their hands to volunteer.

"Alright," Jet looked them over. "You, you, and you four, come with me." he pointed to five men as well as the man who had formerly the spectacles which Jet returned as he passed. "What's your name?"

"Jim Reed, sir." the man replied adjusting his spectacles.

"Mr. Reed I'll need each of you to take a limb and two to lift her body on either side." Jet explained.

"We're going to take the patient to the coach and lay her on the floor, be very careful. I'll hold her head so it doesn't move too much." Dr. Lang ordered. "Positions!" he called out. The men lined up, three to a side with Dr. Lang at the head. "Lift!" he ordered. The men lifted her body and began to slowly walk it to the coach. "Place her in feet first, I need to make sure we don't lose control of the head." The men rotated so that her feet faced the coach and took her to the threshold. "Mr. Moore, get in the coach - I need you to help guide her in. You will need to bend her legs to fit." Jet jumped up into the coach and did as Dr. Lang instructed. Between the eight of them they were able to safely guide the Sergeant Major in with no great incident. Jet sat lengthwise across the seat, unable to move for the cargo on the floor. Dr. Lang poked his head into the door, "I'm going to ride up front with the coachman. Watch her to make certain she doesn't move too much. Here." He said placing Jet's ruined coat under her head as a pillow. "If she rouses try to keep her from moving." He carefully shut the coach door, leaving Jet alone with the unconscious woman - 'if she rouses' as much as he wished her conscious the idea of being solely responsible for her life left him terror stricken.

Jet had never before realized just how many bumps their were in the streets of London; but now he felt every jostle and jerk as the coach slowly made its way to the Hotel. A sudden lurch caused him to brace himself against the wall. He heard the soft moan of a woman from the floor. "Oh no, don't wake up Bertie - we're not home yet." he whispered. But it seemed in slumber she was just as willful as when awake and she moaned again and rolled her head slightly.

"Da?" she murmured.

"Stay still Bertie, don't move." Jet's voice shook as he gave the order. They went over a large bump that caused Jet to momentarily lose contact with the seat. "Goddammit! Does he have to hit every bump in the road!" he exclaimed.

"Da, what was that? Why can't I move?" Bertha sounded more a helpless child than the formidable woman Jet had known.

"Bertie, you- you hit your head and we're taking you home to get it fixed." Jet attempted to explain.

"Oh." she was quiet for a moment. "Da, my head hurts." 'You don't say!' Jet thought to himself.

"It'll be aright Bertie, just go back to sleep." He tried hard to sound calm.

"Da, will it be mush longer? I'm tired."

"Just go back to sleep now, we'll be there soon." Jet was grateful when he heard next the sound of soft snoring. It seemed an eternity before the coach stopped and Dr. Lang opened the door - the sound seemed so loud! Yet she did not wake.

"Now we just have to get her onto the Hotel's stretcher, are you ready Mr. Moore?"

"Oh thank God, yes!" Dr. Lang reached for her shoulders - at his touch her eyes flew open. And she screamed.

"Woah woah, calm down Bertie!" Jet exclaimed. Bertie tried to get up but the Doctor held her shoulders down.

"You! What are you doing to me?! Let go of me!" She screamed lashing out with her fists.

"Bertie, you were hurt during the rally, you need to stay still!" He ordered. She looked up at the man holding her shoulders down.

"And who is this? Another one of your 'friends'?" she struggled. "Let me go!" She shouted.

"This is Dr. Lang - he needs to operate on you, now be still!" Jet shouted the command.

"Operate!" Her screams became more hysterical.

"Jet, hold her down - she needs to be sedated!" the good Doctor ordered. Jet fell on top of her - his knees on her waist and his hands pinning her shoulders to the floor. She pummeled him mercilessly with her fists which thankfully, due to her position and condition lack the force necessary to remove him. Dr. Lang returned with a white rag and placed it over her nose and mouth. She fought a few moments longer and finally settled back into slumber. Jet relaxed his hold. "Chloroform." the Doctor replied to his unasked question. "I take it you and the lady are not on the best terms."

"No, not especially." Jet winced cradling a sore spot on his gut where she had landed a particularly effective punch.

"Are you certain it's a good idea for her to stay here with you?" Dr. Lang queried.

"I'm beginning to rethink the notion," Jet smiled tersely. "But can you think of a better place?" Dr. Lang shook his head.

"No."

"Then we are in accord. Let's get her inside before she wakes again." Jet, Dr. Lang, and the footmen helped lift the Sergeant Major from the coach and place her on the stretcher. They quickly carried her into the building where her room was waiting.

Jet watched the Doctor attentively as he prodded about the wound with his forceps. The Doctor removed a small grey speck, almost invisible to the naked eye, and placed it on a silver plate. He had been at this for the better part of an hour. Without looking up from his work he stated, "I need more water." Jet answered the order by taking a bowl to the sink and filling it as he had done dozens of times since the start of the surgery. He set it on the end table beside Dr. Lang who poured a small amount of Phenol into it and began rinsing the wound again. Jet looked at him questioningly. "The wound is very deep and there is a good deal of dirt from the stone in there - if I don't remove as much as I can before I suture the it then it is very probable that she would develop a very serious infection." He set back to his labor. It was some time before he spoke again. "Out of question, where did you learn to pour laudanum on an open wound?"

"Our family doctor used alcohol to clean the break in my skin when my arm was broken in a riding accident when I was ten; he said alcohol could prevent infection. Laudanum is mostly alcohol so I figured it couldn't hurt the situation any, I suppose. I can't say I was really thinking at the time." Jet recalled.

"He was correct and so were you. Using an antiseptic, like alcohol, immediately likely prevented a good deal of infection from setting in before I could arrive, I imagine the opium helped keep the inflammation down. You may have saved her life." Jet smirked,

"I doubt she'll thank me for it." The Doctor smiled at his remark; though remained focused on his task picking out piece after piece and putting them on the plate.

"Judging from her reaction to you in the coach, I would not wait on it. But you never can tell." He took a good final look into the wound. "That should about do it. I'm going to stitch her up now - you may want to go down for supper; I won't need you for this part." Dr. Lang took the needle and began to thread it. Jet, who had until now managed to keep his composure, felt his stomach lurch at the sight of the threaded needle. He quickly retrieved a tailcoat from his closet and put it on.

"I believe I will. Send for me if you need anything."

"Very good." the Doctor replied examining the needle just as the door closed.

Jet sat in the dining area stirring his soup; lost in thought. In the events of the last few hours he had seemed so unlike himself - the self he had known himself to be that he had so long cultivated - that he could not recognize himself. And yet the germs of his actions felt familiar, as though they had been his constant companion from youth. But such strange fruit they bore! Barking orders wild-eyed and mad in a crowded public square? Rushing to the aid of a woman whom he had every right to, if not scorn, at the very least ignore? A woman whom association with not only failed to benefit him but would injure his reputation? Who had never so much as given him a kind word or a friendly smile? He placed his head on the palm of his hand. "And to what end!" he mumbled to himself.

"Is their something wrong with the soup, sir?" the kindly voice of the waiter inquired. Jet looked up, startled, from his reverie. He pushed the soup away.

"Oh no. No, it's quite fine. I just don't seem to have much of an appetite I'm afraid." He tried to smile reassuringly at the man. "You can take it away."

"Very good, sir." the waiter removed the bowl from the table and walked away. Jet watched him out of the corner of his eye. The waiter was met by his compatriot who whispered to him and pointed at Jet. The waiter whispered back indicating the full bowl of soup. Jet let out a deep, silent sigh - he must be the talk of the staff bringing in a strange woman (a Salvationist: they would know the uniform without doubt) who was gravely injured. The surgery, the bloodied sheets and towels, there could be no doubt every member of staff was trying to solve the mystery this presented them with. It screamed of something: scandal or heroism - the nature of it had yet to be determined. Even Jet felt at a loss to determine what had led to his present circumstance. He sighed once more and stood up, straightening his coat. He sat down again and summoned the waiter for a glass of wine. With the laudanum gone; wine would have to suffice. He was nursing his second glass when a maid came down and met the host at the entryway. She whispered something and pointed to Jet. The host nodded his head and dismissed the woman. The host walked over to Jet and addressed him.

"Pardon the interruption, sir, but Dr. Lang requests your presence." Jet was almost thankful for the reprieve from his own company. He stood and, in one swallow, downed the remainder of the glass and put it on the table. He straightened his coat.

"Thank you." he replied and strode quickly from the room.

He knocked before he entered the Sergeant Major's quarters. "Come in." Dr. Lang replied. Jet opened the door and was startled to see Bertha propped up on a small mountain of pillows, her eyes open, and looking not much worse for the wear aside from a large gauzy, white bandage wrapped about her head. On her forehead and on the edge of her left eye a large bruise was blooming. She allowed a weak smile upon seeing Jet. He could not even begin to describe the warming effect that small gesture immediately produced. He flushed. Dr. Lang approached him carrying his medical bag. "I have been called away to attend to another patient, she made it out of the surgery well but I will need you to keep her awake until I return." He continued lowering his voice to a whisper, "I told her what you did for her; she is grateful - even though she may not show it."


	7. Chapter 6

Jet stood at the entryway of the room for some moments after the door had shut behind the Doctor, not quite sure how to proceed. "So, I hear that you failed to rescue my bonnet?" This accusation caught Jet completely off guard.

"What?"

"My bonnet, the good doctor said it was lost. I'm quite distraught over it for it was my favorite." 'My God, she never stops!' he thought. "I assume you'll be replacing it?" She smiled in that small wry way that gave Jet to know she was not in earnest.

"Well, I'm not up on the fashion of bonnets these days so I'm not sure my judgement in the matter could be trusted. I suppose whichever had the most ribbons, lace, and baubles would be preferred?" He said approaching the bedside and pulling up a chair.

"Oh that would be perfectly dreadful! I couldn't show my face in the world!" Her laugh flowed like a bubbling brook.

"Ah, than the most gaudy tasteless thing available it is!" He smiled. "As it stands, I would prefer you not show your face in the world - it seems to bring about no end of trouble for me."

"Speaking of you, who are you precisely? We've never had a formal introduction and I must say, if I am to be enjoying your hospitality for the immediate future I should at least know to whom my gratitude should be attributed to." Jet had forgotten that while he might be aware of her name, she might not know his.

"Well, I suppose I can easily remedy that. I am Lord Chester Jenkins Moore III." He made a slight bow.

"A bit young for a Lord, aren't you?" She said archly.

"I am older than I look, but yes, father had a bout of ill health and, as I had already shown an aptitude for the business, he opted to retire."

"And how old are you, Lord Chester Jenkins Moore III?"

"Jet, please - how forward of you to ask, I have not asked such personal details of you - how old are you then?"

"Jet? That's an unusual name."

"My sister gave it to me." Jet replied.

"And how did that come about?" Bertha inquired.

"Well, she was still just a little baby and she was only just learning to speak properly. Back then everyone called me Chet and, you see, she couldn't quite make the "Ch-" sound so it sounded like "Jet" whenever she said it. Then Arthur took it up and that was that." Jet explained.

"Is Arthur your brother?" she asked.

"No, he's my best friend - you remember..." Jet lapsed into sudden silence. He looked down at his hands.

"Oh, so he was the one who..." she trailed off.

"Yes."

"Oh." The pair sat in silence for a minute.

"I am so sorry for that - you must know I am! I never intended-" He reached over for her hand - she evaded him.

"I know." She looked away to the opposite wall. The two remained in stony silence for some time. "Thirty." she said, quietly.

"What?" he looked up.

"I'm thirty years old." she answered. "So, how old are you?"

"Twenty-six." Jet replied. "Thirty is rather young for a Sergeant Major, is it not?"

"My father was a curate in the south when he became acquainted with General Booth. Father felt his message was one of great import to the world and joined the Army in spreading it, he and myself, when I was just a girl of fifteen."

"What of your mother and other siblings?" Jet prodded further.

"My mum died when I was very small; I have no siblings to speak of - just a cousin, Jim Reed, he was with me at the brothel."

"Yes!" Jet exclaimed. "The man with the glasses. Is Reed your family name then?"

"No, just his. My Father and I are Smith's."

"So then, Sergeant Major Bertie Smith - well there's not much remarkable in that."

"It's Bertha." She admonished him.

"I believe, I have more than earned the right to call you Bertie if I so choose." Jet grinned. She answered him with a half smile.

"I suppose, given the expense you have incurred on my behalf, I can allow it. But only you." She seemed to flag somewhat; Jet looked at her with concern.

"How are you feeling?" She rubbed her eyes for a moment.

"I'm just, I'm just very tired. My head suddenly feels like the inside has been replaced by a dense fog. I'd like to sleep now, if you don't mind." Bertie's head nodded down.

"I'm sorry Bertie, Dr. Lang said I had to keep you awake until he returned." Jet explained. Her head dipped again. "Come on, I need you to stay awake. Here, tell me more about your family - what was your mum like?"

"Oh mum. She's very nice - you would like her." Bertie drawled. Jet looked at Bertie, confused.

"I thought you said she had passed? What's her name?"

"Oh yes... yes, she did pass," Bertie pressed a hand to her head "I'm sorry, I'm terribly confused. What did you ask me?"

"What was her name?" Jet repeated.

"Oh, her name is Brigid." An Irish name, so Bertie was half-Irish then, he had guessed so much from her features but it was a higher percentage than he had anticipated - and once again Bertie was speaking of her as if she were alive. A sense of alarm was beginning to grow in Jet. "I really am very tired, I think I'm going to go to sleep now." Her head fell backward against her pillows.

"Bertie! Bertie no!" Jet insisted, but there was no response. "Wake up Bertie." he patted her hand. "Come on, I need you to wake up." Jet tried shaking her and patting her cheek. She failed to rouse despite his best efforts. Panicked and at his wits end he decided to employ an old technique he had heard of in his youth from the books his Governess read to him - he kissed her. Justice was swift and harsh - Jet picked himself up from the floor rubbing his ribs. He grinned "Same spot as earlier. You have nothing if not consistent aim."

You kissed me!" she was livid.

"Well it woke you up." He sat down, still grinning.

"That is without question - I'm likely never to risk sleeping again with you in the room." she exclaimed.

"Good, then we are in accord. Dr. Lang will be glad to hear it." He laughed. She looked as though she wished to make reply but could not find the words - finally she just protruded her lower lip in something of a perturbed pout.

"So, tell me about Arthur." She posited. Jet looked at her in surprise.

"Why do you want to know about him? I'd imagine you'd prefer never to hear his name again."

"I suppose I don't. But as reprehensible as I may find him, he still is a child of God, and as God has placed him in my path I should like to know more regarding him." Such a saintly reason for such a perverse request, he thought. Still, it was best to honor it. Jet took a deep breath.

"Alright, what would you like to know?"

"How did you come to know him?" Bertie asked.

"Well, that is a bit of a tale. You could say we've known each other since before we were even born."

"How is that?" furthered Bertie. Jet continued:

"Well, my mother was a close friend of Duchess Caroline Wyndham despite their marked difference in age. When my mother was a young woman the Duchess was something of an idol to her and, as the Duchess favored my mother's attentions and good mien she soon became a mentor to my mother - she even introduced her to my father. For many years the Duke and Duchess had wished for a child but it seemed to be in vain. Then she became with child, my mother soon joined her so Arthur and I were born only a few months apart. We were raised almost as brothers and in all things we were in sympathy. Ever since his father passed, two years this summer, he and I have been business partners as well as brothers." Bertie stared at him as he spoke, her eyes growing wider with every sentence.

"So that man who assaulted me in the street, who was going to..., you mean to say he is- " Jet let out a deep sigh.

"Yes, Arthur Wyndham, Duke of -." For once it seemed Bertie was truly at a loss. She seemed to be trying to speak, her hands fidgeting at the blanket.

"I think I shall be ill." she finally pronounced.

"I am sorry, I won't try to defend his actions - I won't try to pretend either of us are the type of men you might call 'good' or that any of that was entirely out of character. Well, I suppose stopping him was..."

"Do you normally do what he says?" Bertie asked.

"I can't really answer that. It would imply that I am, in some way, under his command as though that might mitigate my culpability. Mark me - I am at least equally culpable for our shared sins if not often the lead transgressor." Bertie seemed to want to object. "No, don't. It's my fault it happened at all - I'm the one who threw the clod of dirt that made you come over to address us. If it weren't for my actions he would've never taken notice of you at all. He has never taken disrespect well. No, normally I would not have stopped him - I cannot account for why I did." Jet walked over to the closet and took a tenderly wrapped brown bottle from the drawer, uncorked it, and took a long dram.

"Perhaps it was God." Bertie quietly suggested.

"Perhaps, who knows! If kisses can wake sleeping women I suppose other fairy tales are possible as well." He took another large gulp from the bottle. Bertie looked at the bottle nervously.

"What are you drinking?" she asked so quietly it was difficult for Jet to hear it.

"You know what it is! You spend every day trying to save people from it. It's Laudanum." He declared loudly raising the bottle into the air. He shoved it under her nose "Want a taste?"

"No, thank you!" Bertie cried, pushing it away. Jet shook it in front of her:

"Are you sure? It'll help your headache."

"I can tolerate the pain, thank you."

"Suit yourself; more for me." He plopped back into the chair and took another drink. His leaned his elbows on his knees with his hands hanging somewhat limply in between, fingers still holding the brown bottle ever so slightly. He stared vacantly out the window beside Bertha's bed; thinking everything and nothing in the same moment. The sun had finally surrendered itself to slumber below the horizon, yet there was still some daylight lingering, leaving the things of the world in dark relief from the tea colored sky. Bertha tugged absently at the white yarn knots that adorned her blanket.

"So, tell me about your family?" Bertha requested, finally breaking the silence. Jet turned his head to look at her, a little befuddled. "You said you have a younger sister - is she your only sibling?"

"Oh yes." Jet was relieved to have a reprieve from the subject of Arthur. "Yes, I have three siblings. An elder sister, Philomena, who is two years my senior; my younger sister by six years, Elizabeth; and a younger brother, Avery, who will turn ten next month."

"What are they like?"

"Well Philomena is... well she's queersome. It seems when she views the world she is attempting not to laugh out loud at a joke only she can hear. I won't claim that she hasn't accomplishments but she does not seem to possess talent in any one of them. She was always a strange bird: more likely to spend hours in the library reading the dictionary than poetry or novels; more at home talking to the cats than to the family. I am quite certain those cats know more of what goes on in her head than any human ever will. On late nights, when we were younger, she would spend hours talking to the full moon. She said she thought it must be so lonesome to be the moon - so far away from every one and every thing - always looking down on the world but never being able to join it. I told her the moon had the stars to keep it company but she said the stars were actually even further away from the moon than we are. I believe she still feels it is her duty to keep the full moon company. She's not mad or dangerous or anything - just odd. She's lately married, to our great relief.

I doubt there can be much question that I am the most partial to my baby sister, Elizabeth. I still remember when she was born and how soft and tiny and perfect she was. When she was old enough to toddle about she would follow me around like a tiny yellow-headed duckling. She's much less a baby now, I suppose, but it's hard to picture her, in my mind, as a lady. It is easier for me to picture she and I on the bank of our pond catching frogs - to my mother's horror, I should add - than attending society balls. I scarcely can recognize her in her gowns and finery, powdered and done up. She is so very beautiful, so very accomplished and talented, were I not certain of her suitor I should fear her eminent loss."

"So she is spoken for?" Bertha queried.

"Not yet, but she is as good as. I don't quite know how I shall ever see her as a Duchess, or a mother for that matter - when the time comes."

"A Duchess? So then the suitor is-"

"Arthur." Jet interrupted. "I'm sorry, I meant to avoid the subject."

"I suppose it can't be helped." Bertha sighed. "He was your constant companion from birth - I doubt there is a way to exorcise him completely from your recollections. What of your brother - Avery was it?"

"I don't know that I can say much about Avery, we do share the same house but we have little interaction. I suppose he does like to draw and read and he writes well for his young age. He spends most of his days riding and I daresay he has a particular eye for horseflesh that puts even our buyer to shame. Beyond that much I'm sorry to say my knowledge is lacking - I imagine the grooms know more of him than I." He shook his head. It seemed the Doctor was a long time in returning; the stars were now beginning to dot the sky and there was that moon, full and round and fat, casting its light through the window. Without immediately recognizing it he took in the soft music as part of the scene - as mellow and soft as the moon itself. Suddenly, he snapped back to himself and looked to the source of the music. Bertie was looking at the moon humming softly. "What is that music?"

"Oh, it's nothing." She looked vaguely embarrassed, as though she had not realized she had been humming at all. "Just an old tune my mother used to sing to me about the moon."

"Well, since I have been introduced to the tune would you care to add the words?" he gave her a wry smile. She flushed slightly but acquiesced to his request.

"The young May moon is beaming, love.

The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love.

How sweet to rove,

Through Morna's grove,*  
>When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!<br>Then awake! - the heavens look bright, my dear,  
>'Tis never too late for delight, my dear,<br>And the best of all ways  
>To lengthen our days<br>Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!"

And in this manner they passed the hour, talking of things of little consequence until Dr. Lang returned and relieved Jet of his post for the night.

It was not until afternoon, when Jet awoke, that he sensed something was wrong. It seemed there was a great commotion coming from the room next door where Bertie was being kept. The Doctor was barking orders to what sounded like a highly agitated pair of maids. There was the sound of heavy thumping, somehow muffled, yet it did not cease. In a moment he was up, bedclothes tossed aside. He ran into the other room wearing only his nightshirt to behold a horrible sight. Bertie was shaking about uncontrollably on the bed. The maids, each to a side, were using all their strength to keep her arms down; yet those very arms jerked about so violently they had to use both hands and still often lost their hold. Dr. Lang was desperately attempting to stabilize her head.

"What's happening?" Jet cried out over the din. One of the maids lost her footing and sent the side table lamp crashing to the floor.

"She's having a seizure!" Dr. Lang shouted back. "I need you to hold her legs down!" Jet obediently leaned over the footboard and grabbed hold of her blanket covered ankles, pushing them deep into the mattress. Bertha continued to shake uncontrollably, leading Jet to a sense of deep panic.

"Is there anything else I can do to stop this?" Jet hollered.

"No!" Dr. Lang answered. "She just has to get through it on her own, we just have to keep her from hurting herself in the meantime." Jet held her fast for what seemed, easily, an eternity; terrified from the sight. It was as though a demon had possessed her - he had never been one to believe in any of those ancient stories but in that moment he couldn't deny he wished someone could come and stop this frightful show with a mere touch. Finally, it seemed she had calmed down, the jerks and shakes had lessened - Jet looked down at his hands, the knuckles were pure white from his grasp. He willed his hands to loosen and slid them from the bed. Dr. Lang ran his sleeve across his forehead wiping off sweat from the exertion of his task. "It looks like she's past the worst of it. Look! She's coming back to herself." Bertie's eyelids fluttered open and she let out a slight moan. Dr. Lang drew her attention. "What is your name?" he asked.

"Bertha." she replied drowsily.

"And your family name?" She hesitated for a moment and scrunched up her eyes and nose as though this piece of information were not immediately accessible to her conscious mind but had to, instead, be searched out.

" Smith."

"And how old are you, Bertha Smith?" the Doctor asked. She moaned slightly in response.

"uggh... Thirty."

"What town do you currently reside in?"

"W-ing." She replied. The Doctor shook his head.

"Try again." he requested.

"I live in W-ing." She insisted. Dr. Lang looked concerned.

"Let's try another one: who is the ruler of England?"

"Queen Victoria." She sounded more certain on this answer. Dr. Lang continued asking her more simple questions which she answered to the best of her ability, growing more sure as she continued. Her color seemed to be returning, her cheeks reddened and her eyes, while tired, shone brightly. Finally he returned to the troublesome query:

"What town do you currently reside in?"

"W-ing. No wait..." she put her hand to her forehead and concentrated for a moment. "London." Jet felt a rush of relief wash over him. It must have shown on his face for the Doctor gave him a worn smile and a nod.

"Who am I?" Dr. Lang continued.

"You are Doctor... Lang." she answered.

"And who is he?" Dr. Lang indicated to Jet.

"A man with very poor taste in friends." She smiled. Dr. Lang laughed.

"I believe she'll be alright, she weathered the storm with all her faculties in tact."

"I can't say I'm sure that's a positive thing." Jet was incensed, but still his eyes revealed his amusement. Bertha turned to Dr. Lang:

"What happened Doctor?" Dr. Lang took her hand in his.

"You had a seizure, my dear. It was quite serious - I believe I shall need to take a look at the wound if you would permit me." She nodded in assent and Dr. Lang carefully unwound the bandages from her head to reveal an ugly line of stitches running across a bright red line that marked the injury. "Oh dear." Dr. Lang muttered, poking at the red line. He placed his hands on her cheeks and forehead.

"What's the problem, Doctor?" Jet looked pensively at the physician. His eyes looked sadly at Bertha as he spoke.

"The wound is inflamed. I'm sorry my dear, it appears you have developed an infection, and a dangerous one at that. You are burning up with fever. I will do everything I can to treat it but we may want to send for your family." She was taken aback by the news, as though it had never occurred to her that she might not recover. She felt her cheeks and head for herself as if in an attempt to disprove the diagnosis but it was clear from her fallen expression her test had only confirmed it.

"I was staying with my Uncle Reed in Cheapside but my father is still in W-ing" she provided soberly. She continued but Jet was, at this moment, beyond comprehending. He stood without response watching as a maid left the room and returned some minutes later with a bowl of cool water and a number of towels for compresses. The other had left as well but she did not return. Jet walked over to his own quarters in a daze and, upon arrival, promptly vomited into the sink basin.

The next two days seemed to pass in an excruciating blur of people and illness. Bertha fell into a fevered sleep the first evening from which she was unable to be awakened from. Her Aunt Reed and cousin, Jim, arrived a few hours later and had kept a constant vigil since. She fell into another fit that night and a third the following morning. With her family's blessing, Jet had attempted to attend to his affairs that first day but soon found he was unable to focus his attention on business while Bertie lay on the precipice of mortality. He returned early that afternoon to take up his chair at her bedside. The second night of her illness he found himself keeping watch alone with Jim Reed. Not a word passed between the two men for some hours as they sat beside her still form. Finally, Jet stood up and walked over to the window casement, he peered out the window letting his eyes rest upon the form of the waning moon - still so much what it was only two nights ago when he and Bertie had gazed upon it. He hummed softly without thinking, that low Irish tune.

"You love her, don't you?" a voice from behind him asked. 'Impertinence must be a family trait.' Jet thought to himself.

"No. No, I don't." Jet replied, not turning to face the man. "To be honest, I can't even say I especially like her."

"You've put yourself to a good deal of trouble and expense for a woman you don't especially like." Jim Reed probed.

"I suppose it's because I know her. I can no longer count her as one of the nameless masses. And I find I am not so easily able to watch as someone I know dies where they might have lived had I intervened - as troublesome as I may find that life. I have the means without even having to strain my finances and given that I have contributed to her troubles in the past, it is only fitting that I should make some atonement for them." Jet still stared at the moon, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.

"Ah! She did say she knew you at the brothel." Jet winced at Jim Reed's indelicacy. "How did you meet?"

"I would prefer not to discuss it." Jet's reply was unmistakably terse. Jim shuffled uncomfortably in the chair beside the standing gentleman.

"Well, I love her." he offered. "I can't thank God enough for leading you to the rally - I am certain she would not have survived if not for you." Jet refused to acknowledge Jim Reed's confession or gratitude but stared in stony silence out the window. The two men remained in this state for some time until Jet finally spoke:

"I believe I shall be retiring for the evening, good night to you." He strode from the room without so much as a slight bow or nod of acknowledgement leaving Jim Reed to stew in a state of discomfiture.

The following day marked the arrival of Bertha's father who, Jet was surprised to note, was the same man with the imperial mustache from the rally where he and Bertie had first come into contact. It seemed that over the past few months he had acquired an eye patch on his right eye and now walked with a cane. The Rev. Smith made no greeting but hobbled over to his daughters bed and fell to his knees at her bedside weeping openly and grasping her limp hand. Those gathered turned their faces from the scene, even Jet, who up until this point would have questioned whether he had the facilities to feel such emotions, found his heart rent by the wailing sobs of the father for his only daughter. The man cried out to his God, his words often choked and lost, for leading him to send his only daughter to death when he had requested His guidance in leading her to a place where she would be protected from harm. "You have taken my wife, my eye, my limb all in my service to you! Please," he begged. "Don't take my daughter too!" he fell into wrenching sobs. Jet, not one to give much regard to the religious, had to admit he appreciated this man's honesty in the face of his God. Still, he had no desire to witness further display and opted to remove himself from the apartment to the street. It had been so long since he had been able to get out he found he was not immediately able to adjust to the feel of the open air or the glare of the sun. Once he gained his bearings he breathed deeply the cool breeze and began to walk with little question as to where his feet would lead him - his hands had begun to shake and a feeling of unquenchable desire for his long delayed drink of choice nagged at him. He made short work of the distance to that den of an apothecary shop and, having purchased his prize, he sat down to drink.

By the time he had finished his second bottle the sun was setting in the west. Still, he wasn't quite ready to return to the Hotel. The idea of being amongst those people who had overtaken his apartment who praised him as a hero yet impeded his ability to indulge in his comforts. Their talk of God, their constant prayers, their attempts to make a friend of him left him feeling suffocated - it was a relief to finally breathe free without having it observed. For a while he walked aimlessly. He had no mind for business at the moment. He could visit Lord and Lady Cox, but he found his desire to see either party was quite stifled. The brothel would hold no peace for him; the memories of his encounter with Bertie there were far too raw. He chanced upon a small girl selling flowers and purchased one for his charge. It seemed there was no point in further delaying the inevitable, he turned and began the walk back to the Hotel.

He arrived in the apartment to find the father still kneeling at his daughter's bedside; the others having gone to leave the man in peace. His sobs had ceased and were replaced by prayers for the will of God to be done. Jet liked this version of the man significantly less. Still he stood in the door frame watching. The man seemed to sense Jet's presence and turned, making an effort to stand. He grasped the top of the cane to pull himself up but found that his long stay in one manner had left him unable to right himself. Jet offered his arm to assist the man to a nearby chair.

"Thank you." The man said. His face was pale from the exertion of his grief, he appeared exhausted. "So you're the man rescued my daughter." Jet held up a gloved hand to stop him.

"If you please sir, I have quite had my fill of gratitude and I am certain I shall never receive so much in total in all the remainder of my life." Rev. Smith was nonplussed by the young man's reaction but ceased speaking.

"How is she?" his voice was rough as he spoke. Jet answered matter of factly,

"Dr. Lang has said if she fails to wake in the next day it is likely she will never. He is still hopeful that she may make at least a partial recovery but he is not sure the amount of damage the fits may have caused to her mind."

"Can you tell me what happened? Jim told me you witnessed the attack."

"Yes, a pair of men were harassing her and she rebuffed them so one of the men hit her across the head with a paving stone. I believe he was arrested for the assault." Jet was solemn in his reply.

"I imagine his fate is tied directly with hers then?" the Reverend looked sadly towards the bed.

"Yes. Though, regardless, I believe his life is over whether now or years from now." He had meant his statement in way of consolation but Rev. Smith did not seem to take it as such.

"It is a pity, I will remember to pray for his family." the older man murmured.

"If I may be so bold, why did you send her to London? You must be aware that this is the home of your detractors." Jet took a seat in the other chair at the foot of the bed. Reverend Smith responded with a short, mirthless laugh.

"I suppose the answer 'God told me to' would be insufficient to a man such as yourself." Jet nodded in agreement. "It was three months hence - there was a Salvation Army rally in W-ing. I was to be the main speaker, but the army of the adversary showed in full force that day. They attacked us with a fury. I was caught by a group of men and beaten viciously; I lost my right eye in the attack and my limb was badly broken. The cuts and bruises have since healed and the physician tells me I may regain full use of my limb in time but my vision will never be as it was. When Bertha came to visit my bedside, though she had attempted to conceal them, I saw the bruises blooming on her hand and wrist. She confessed a man had accosted her and threw her to the ground. We were fortunate that was all that happened to my poor girl." Jet winced, attempting to will away the memory. The man continued: "That night I prayed to God to reveal to me a safe place to send her. I felt the strong hand of the Lord guiding her to London where she could be cared for by her Aunt and Uncle; so I sent her. And now look at her!" He waved harshly to the bed but quickly composed himself. "I suppose it is God's will. I just wish I understood His plans better." Jet held his tongue; tempted as he was to contradict the man, now was hardly the appropriate moment to deny him the consolation of his faith. He politely excused himself and retired to his room for the night.

For hours Jet tossed about in his own bed, unable to sleep for the irritation building inside of him. Finally he abandoned the bed entirely for the balcony. The night breeze brushed about him like so many ribbons weaving and twisting around his body. He tilted his chin up, eyes closed and let the wind breathe upon him cooling his form yet not his temper. He pressed his fists to the railing and looked up to the night sky.

"Why'd you even let me meet her if you were just going to kill her, eh?! Why bring her back into my life just so I could watch her die?! What kind of sadistic God blights his own servants? Murders them without mercy?" He shouted to the void. "Some God." He muttered letting his hands loosen to rest, open palmed on the chilled rail. "Damn you!" He howled. He slammed his fist onto the rail. "Ouch!" he yelped, cradling his freshly bruised hand. "I suppose you think that's funny?" he accused the silent stars "I suppose you think all of this is hilarious! Butter upon Bacon! You are bloody well disturbed! I'm through with you!" He turned, slamming his open palms against the rail, wincing upon the contact of the injured one with the metal. "As if I had anything to do with fictional beings anyhow." he muttered walking back into his room and throwing himself upon his bed. It seemed the outburst had done its trick - Jet slept a dreamless slumber well into the dawn.

With the rising of the sun Jet washed his face, dressed enough to be presentable to those interlopers who occupied the apartment day and night. He walked over to Bertie's room and stood leaning on the door frame. There sat Rev. Smith slumped down in the chair beside her bed, breathing slowly, asleep. The sunlight cast a bright beam over Bertie's form, still swaddled in thick blankets. He noticed something, a slight flutter of the eyelids. It seemed as though every piece of grief and stress, every weight of the world, left him in that moment. He smiled. "Hey, good morning." Those brown eyes fixed on him,

"Good morning." she whispered. "I don't want to wake him; he looks so tired." And thus, the vigil ended. Dr. Lang arrived mid-morning and, after a thorough examination, concluded her faculties were intact and her fever had broken. The apartment was filled with rejoicing family and friends praising God for this great miracle. Jet stood apart from the celebrations, accepting handshakes and praise but otherwise keeping to himself, content to let the revelers have their moment. Save for one handshake. He approached Dr. Lang who was packing his supplies to leave, "Thank you Dr. Lang, I believe she never would have had a chance if not for you." he offered his hand, the physician received it.

"If not for the both of us."

"Should you find yourself in _shire, you are welcome to our house any time."

"I shall consider it." Dr. Lang replied.

"So what now?" Jet asked.

"The family has requested she be moved to her Uncle's house when she is well enough, I will check in periodically to monitor her recovery but I believe she has gotten through the worst of it."

"If she requires any further attention, merely contact my solicitor and he will make the necessary arrangements."

"Then you are leaving?" the Doctor inquired.

"Yes. Tomorrow morning. My business has long since been concluded and with Bertie on the mend I see no reason to remain. I have no doubt her family will vacate the premises as soon as she is able to be moved - they don't seem the type to take advantage of hospitality." he made a nod over to the swarm of blue uniforms crowded about the bed. Dr. Lang smiled.

"Then I wish you safe travels, may we meet again in less dire circumstance."

"I shall look forward to it." Jet saw the man to the apartment door where they shook hands once more.

That evening Jet bid farewell to a sea of grateful faces begging him to stay, to visit the next time he was in town, to come to dinner or tea, and above all praising and thanking him for his heroic generosity. All in all it was very tedious. Finally, they had all gone home. Even Bertie's father had left to join his sister and her family for supper. Jet was finally alone in the apartment with Bertha for the first time in days. He sauntered over to her room. "Hey."

"Hay is for horses." she smiled.

"Bricky woman." he answered back. She gaped at him.

"I believe such talk is indecent in the presence of a lady!" she scolded in a scandalized tone.

"Ah, have you seen one about, then?" he teased. She puffed out her lower lip in indignation.

"So is it true? You are leaving tomorrow?"

"Yes, my business is finished and I have no reason to remain longer. Besides, another day with your family might send me to the madhouse."

"I imagine they have been a bit much for you - they do mean well." she sighed.

"Oh, I don't doubt it." Bertie looked as though she were about to speak, then hesitated, picking at the yarn ties again. Finally she seemed to gather her courage.

"Will you come to call on us next time you are in town?" Jet couldn't tell for sure if this were a question or a request. He let out a theatrically loud sigh, as though he was being grossly put upon.

"I suppose I should have no choice but to call on you seeing as I saved you from certain death. Pluck'd you from the claws of the devil himself-" he dodged a flying pillow. "My my, such a violent child. No doubt you are much restored. Besides," he added. "If I didn't call on you you'd just find me anyhow."

"That would seem to be the current trend." she allowed. "So, until we meet again?" she stuck out a hand as though for a handshake.

"Until then." he took her hand in his own, flipped it so the back faced him and gave it a quick kiss which was met promptly with a slap to his face. He grinned.

"You are an evil man! I should know better than to trust you!"

"Just remember that the next time we meet. I don't want all these people to put ideas of my goodness into your mind. I imagine by Christmas I shall have been elevated to sainthood in their eyes."

"You have nothing to fear from me, I shan't be fool enough to ever place you on a pedestal. But still..." she hesitated again. "Thank you... Jet." His name pronounced by her lips sent a bolt of lightening through him. He laughed in spite of himself. He unconsciously tried to cover his grin with a hand.

"What is so funny?" she sounded rather put-out by his reaction. He took a moment to collect himself, still grinning he answered,

"That's the first time you ever called me by my name. I suppose I wasn't ready for it."

"You weren't ready to hear your own name? You are an odd one." she shook her head.

"You are one to make such an accusation, Sergeant Major."

"I thought it was Bertie." she suggested slyly.

"Bertie it is and Bertie it shall always be until I breathe my last!" Jet declared raising a fist to the sky. The two broke out into a fit of laughter. Bertie was the first to catch her breath.

"I suppose it is getting late and you have an early train to catch."

"Yes, I suppose that is true. And you still need your rest as well - I can't have you dying after I've left or I'll lose my reputation as a grand miracle worker. Goodnight Bertie." He turned to leave.

"Goodnight Jet, I'll pray for you." He stopped dead in his tracks.

"Good luck with that." he shot back, closing the door behind him.


	8. Chapter 7

The day was as fine a summer day as any Jet had seen. He strode up the road that led to the main house. Still, he felt unready to join his people just yet - and what was a short delay in the inevitable anyhow? He turned off the road into the wooded area that bordered the East side of the estate. It had been some years since he had properly tramped through this forest; yet, he could still clearly recall those old feelings, those ancient places of note. The leaves of last Autumn carpeted the ground and covered the pathways, long since abandoned; Jet felt them softly give under his boots. He took a detour towards a bubbling spring and, upon arrival, cupped his hands and drank the icy water as he and Arthur had done many times. He felt as its coolness traveled down his throat and into his stomach, spreading out from its confines and then he felt it no more as it took on the warm temperature of the gut. He no longer needed to make a running leap or walk the fallen log over the small stream the spring created, he had not needed to in a long time - still, he searched out the old dead log, now sunken and decaying, its bark long since worn off. He took a light step on it to test if it was still sound. It seemed to hold him even at this age. In two short steps he had crossed the makeshift bridge and was walking up the steep bank. A fox, disturbed by the sudden ruckus, looked down at him warily from the top of the hill. Jet waved a hand in greeting to the animal. "Hullo, old friend!" he called. The fox turned and ran into the underbrush, the white tip of his tail flicking away from view last. "Don't let me catch you around here in autumn for I cannot guarantee your safety." He continued up the slope to where the ground finally leveled. It would be another few minutes before he reached his destination. The stones he passed began to take on a more squared appearance, some seemed to be stacked as bricks. Finally, he reached the fallen column that marked the place. There, disturbed by no man, stood the old stone ruins where Jet and Arthur had spent endless hours of their youth. The building, whatever it had once been, was square in shape with uneven sides indicating it had once been a good deal taller. One corner had fallen, long before he had known the place, it had become something of a top side door. He stepped through the gaping crack entering the large, open room; gently pushing aside a number of spent bottles with his foot. The sun was streaming into the opposite corner where the thatch roof he and Arthur had so carefully constructed years before had finally given way. He leaned against the wall and uncorked the bottle he had kept hidden in his pocket. He could still see himself here all those years ago.

He could vividly recall the day he and Arthur had discovered the place during a game of chase. He had jumped the stream landing hard on the other side of the bank. The leaves he had landed on had proved to be concealing soft, watery mud which spurted up onto his clothes and consumed his shoes and hands. He had quickly extricated himself before Arthur could puzzle a way to cross that would not lead to a switch across the legs. He raced up the bank and over the flat terrain, hopping over the square hewn stones and taking little note of their intentional design. Then he saw it, the ruined stone building, standing in front of him then as today. He had stopped dead in his tracks and stared. Arthur caught up to him and tagged him then but the game had clearly ended. Through the years they stopped here often. When they were young, they built onto it; they constructed the roof, a door for the crack, and various pieces of wobbly furniture if that's what one chose to call it. They built up uneven fences, outbuildings, and stick pallisades, even a small brick "fountain" that never held water for long no matter how many buckets they brought from the spring. As they grew older they spent hours there drinking the precious pilfered laudanum Jet's mother kept in a high cabinet. In later years they would purchase their own yet still they came here to talk for hours on life and philosophy - making small repairs as needed. Then, it seemed, one day they just stopped coming - as though unconsciously a decision had been simultaneously made by both parties and yet they had never spoken a word on it.

What had brought him back here today? He wondered taking a drink. He felt as though something were out of place in his deepest self but he couldn't quite determine what. 'Why' was much more evident. It was that woman. Had something that had only taken less than five minutes between start and finish really taken so sure a hold of his life? He had spent a full week tending to a woman of literally no consequence. Had she died on the street what would it have mattered to the world or to him? He had never been prone to guilt for his actions and certainly the guilt of throwing dirt at a woman, a mere prank that caused her no direct harm, should be easily forgotten if ever even acknowledged. He certainly could not be held responsible for Arthur's part - why he seemed intent to pay the penance for his friend was beyond him. Still he recalled how her body had fluttered in his arms - he could still feel it! He downed the rest of the bottle as if to drown the sensation and threw it to the ground, smashing it. That woman! Perhaps he had come here to put her away, to entertain the memory one last time before leaving it within these walls forever. Would he actually call on her? No. He shook his head at the notion. It was ludicrous to even entertain it. Certainly, she would agree once her mind settled properly. He should, and he would forget her... in time. His debt to her was more than repaid - further contact would only complicate their lives. Yet something about her seemed to have infested his brain, ever so gently causing just the smallest itch. Still, it would subside, he was certain, as he returned to his daily duties and the more courtly ladies he preferred to keep company with. He lingered on for a minute, not quite ready to leave, watching the sun patch dance as the tree leaves were rustled by the wind. A cloud passed over causing the patch to disappear. Suddenly it seemed as though the little house had grown cold and empty as a grave. Jet shivered from the cold seeping through his coat from the wall he leaned against. The warm memories faded away into the shadows; it was time to leave. Jet stepped through the doorway and headed though the trees towards the garden.

As Jet walked into the garden he heard a pair of voices, the first he easily identified as that of his sister, Elizabeth. The second was almost as quickly determined, for her accent alone gave her away - it could only be Miss Ingrid Mason. He ducked behind a wall to spy on their conversation unnoticed. He saw the two standing on the path next to the roses, his sister looking every inch an angel in her gauzy white dress while Ingrid wore a light mint green dress that flattered her tall, thin figure quite nicely. The two seemed quite wrapped up in the business of the roses. "You must give your gardener my compliments. These are some of the finest roses I have seen since my arrival." Ingrid commented lightly petting a large red rose's blossom.

"He certainly has a talent for them. Though I am one to prefer his lilacs - they have such a lovely aroma and color, though I do regret they have started to fade with the summer."

"It is a pity but it does remind us: 'All flesh is grass, and all its loveliness is like the flower of the field. The grass withers, the flower fades, When the breath of the LORD blows upon it; Surely the people are grass. The grass withers, the flower fades, But the word of our God stands forever.'" Ingrid spoke with a serene smile.

"Certainly this is true." Elizabeth replied. "One must appreciate the beauty while it is here."

"And appreciate that beauty as it fades and transforms. It is the Lord's testimony of His constancy through the generations of man."

"I am so glad you were able to call today - it is so nice to have another woman to converse with!"

"I understand completely! And good friends are difficult to find among our age group, many are so eager to spread gossip and scandal either for their own edification or to ruin others that I often find it is difficult to find someone I can trust. Someone who won't be constantly tearing others down or searching for faults to tell to others."

"You simply can't trust a gossip." Ingrid agreed, knowingly. "If they are willing to speak against others to you, it is almost a certainty that they will speak against you to others when you are not present."

"I agree with you entirely. It must be especially difficult coming from another land - at least I have come up here and have long been able to distinguish the flowers from the weeds, I imagine it has been much more difficult for you." Elizabeth placed a hand on the other woman's forearm in sympathy.

"I wish I could confirm what you say, for your own sake, but it has been quite easy for the gossips have fast revealed themselves." Ingrid placed her hand upon Elizabeth's.

"I suppose I can guess the subject of their wagging tongues. It is no matter though." Jet was grieved to hear this. He had known, certainly there could have been no question, that Arthur's courtship of Elizabeth would make her season more difficult. He had hoped she would not notice, for she had always had many friends; but it sounded as though she now found herself quite alone attempting to navigate a sea of hostility - and many of the most crushing blows coming from those once most intimate. Still it gratified him to see Ingrid had not been swayed by popular opinion, but had chosen to forsake it for something of true value.

"Fortunately, their envy has only indicated to me who the best of them is." she smiled knowingly at her companion.

"I cannot tell you how glad it makes me to hear you say that; I will not deny, it has been a very difficult season. I knew it would be though, I had prepared myself. But I cannot even tell you how grateful I am that you are here, I had not expected to have even one dove among the crows to give me comfort." The two strolled on a few feet to another small plant.

"A giktgräs!" she squealed, clapping her hands together. Elizabeth looked at the small pink flower her friend had indicated.

"We call them twinflowers." she plucked a stalk which held a pair of flower heads and gave it to Ingrid.

"A twinflower, you say?" she said holding the little plant to her eyes and examining it closely. "I suppose it is not hard to reason why."

"Do you have many twinflowers in Sweden?" Elizabeth inquired.

"Oh yes! Fields of them! They are especially lovely among the big spruce trees in the northern forests." Ingrid looked wistfully at the flower.

"I suppose you must miss your homeland very much?" Ingrid nodded in assent.

"It's not that I don't enjoy the charms of England, certainly it is a wonderful country, but I cannot pretend that I don't find myself wishing to be home. It is hard to be away from my sea and the great pine forests."

"Tell me what it was like?" Elizabeth led.

"It was very different. In the summer the sun shined through the day and well into the night - and even then it never truly got dark. I cannot even tell you how many times, as a little girl, I would go out to play in the forests in the early afternoon and return only to find it was well after midnight. My Grandfather would always warn me that I best not stay out that late for a troll might spy me playing and thinking 'What a lovely little thing!' would snatch me up and take me to live with him in his cave and then they'd never see me again." The childish joy with which Ingrid related her tale to Elizabeth radiated so brightly from her face Jet felt he had never seen a more lovely sight in his entire life. "But in the winter it was dark all the time! Come Christmas we would dress in white dresses with headdresses made with pine boughs and candles - it was the most lovely sight you would ever see. My Grandfather took me far north once to see the lights and the reindeer herds - I though for sure I would see Jultomten but all I saw was an elk."

"Jultomten?" Elizabeth looked confused. Ingrid thought for a moment, looking for the correct words.

"Oh... I believe you call him... Father Christmas?"

"Oh yes, yes we do! He gives out presents to all the good children on Christmas."

"Yes, then that is correct. He wasn't there though, only the elk. I have never seen a creature so large in my life!"

"You must see an elephant then! Or a giraffe! They are so big you have to stand of the second story of a house to reach the top of them. We must have Jet take us to the Zoological Gardens to see them before the summer is out."

"Jet? Am I not fine enough company to lead this party?" Arthur strode up to the two women and placed his arm protectively across Elizabeth's shoulders. "Miss Mason it is lovely to see you this fine day." he took her hand briefly but she looked away, slightly pink from the embarrassment of witnessing such an open display of affection.

"Hullo Artie!" Jet called from slightly down the path, only a few feet from where he had concealed himself only moments prior.

"Hullo Jet!" Arthur returned his salutation. The two men greeted each other with a firm handshake. "I heard there was some excitement on your trip." Jet pinched the bridge of his nose with his hand and drew in a hissing breath.

"You know you might have at least given me a few moments before you brought up that particular subject."

"And how many moments should you have liked?" Arthur gave him a light tap on the side with his walking stick. Jet responded with a wince and a sharp intake of breath. 'Always in the same spot!'

"A fortnight or two at least, an eternity's worth if you could have managed."

"Supposing I couldn't, now is as fine a time as any. Seems you are quite the hero - I would've never imagined it in all my life. But my Valet swears it was you who did the deed and your solicitor confirmed it. Still saving a Salvationist! Isn't that supposed to be the job of their employer? Perhaps He was on holiday?" Arthur said with his sinister smile.

"Well, I think it was very noble of you." Ingrid interjected. "Very few men of any type would do such a thing. I have rarely been so pleased in being associated with anyone as I have been these past days."

"There you go, my boy!" Arthur swung an arm around Jet's shoulder. "You are the idol of the gentler sex." Both Jet and Ingrid turned their burning faces to avoid eye contact. "So tell us what happened? And who is this mystery woman?"

"What is there to tell? A man took a paving stone to her head. I suppose I took pity on her and arranged for her care. She is no one of any consequence, simply a dumpy Salvationist Sergeant Major." Jet had no desire to intimate the prior connection - to Arthur it would be of no relevance, save from an object of further mockery and it would only raise further questions from the ladies.

"I suppose Father will be relieved to hear that. He wished for you to see him as soon as you arrived." Elizabeth spoke the words Jet least wished to hear. In all this time he had forgotten about Father. He sucked in a deep breath and let it out harshly.

"I'm guessing there is no way I can avoid this?" Jet implored his little sister.

"Not forever." Elizabeth answered.

"Best get it over with, then. There's nothing to be done for it and he'll only be more furious for the added delay. Miss Mason, it was a pleasure to see you." He turned to her with a bow. He had only gone a few steps before Arthur hailed him.

"Oi, Jet! Let me come along, I have some business with the old man myself." He called.

"Anything that could divert his wrath would be welcome." Jet smiled at him, clapping his arm around his comrade's shoulders.

"Oh, I imagine that I shall certainly do. I doubt he should have any left for you when I've finished." Arthur grinned.

Jet and Arthur entered the cavernous office. It felt dimly lit, despite the enormous windows, and was dressed in deep greens and mahogany. Before the windows was situated the ancient wooden desk of Jet's grandfather now occupied exclusively by the only senior Chester Jenkins Moore still living. He was deeply immersed in a sheath of documents. No longer the head of his company he still found a number of ways through which to occupy his analytical mind. He did not glance from his work for such an extended moment that Jet wondered if he had noted the entrance of the two young men at all. "Shut the door, please." the elder Moore stated. If ever there were four words to strike terror into a man's heart those were they. Jet quietly shut the door until the click of the latch told of its condition. Jet tensed reflexively at the sound. "Chester!" came the low growl from the desk.

"Yes sir." Jet faced him, stock still. The presence of a Duke would do nothing to mitigate his father's wrath; for that very wrath had, on a number of occasions, been visited upon Arthur as well. The man removed himself from his desk and approached his son.

"What is this I hear about you failing to appear for a dinner obligation with Lord and Lady Cox in order to play nursemaid to a Salvationist woman?" Jet paled. Until that very moment he had entirely forgotten about the dinner! It was a disastrous error on his part. For whatever their personal indulgences, Lord and Lady Cox were not people to be trifled with and were inclined to take such slights very seriously. "You are fortunate Lady Cox fancies you and was thus inclined to accept an apology on your behalf - provided you be more attentive on your next visit this Christmas."

"This Christmas?" Jet answered numbly.

"Yes, they have requested your presence for the holidays and you will oblige them." the elder man commanded.

"Yes sir." Moore the younger accepted. He had no desire to spend such an extended period with the Cox family, particularly at their own home - that den of hedonism often surpassed what he, low as he was, could easily stomach. Still, there was little choice in the matter; the invitation already having been accepted on his behalf.

"Now, as for the issue of the woman. You are fortunate all talk has named you a hero with no hint of scandal. Apparently, the woman in question was one of unimpeachable reputation and the family and staff vouched to all that nothing untoward occurred. But I must know for myself - are you involved in an affair with this guttersnipe?"

"No sir!" Jet exclaimed. "Even now, I can scarcely claim any knowledge of her at all. Nor would any part of that knowledge entice me to pursue such relations with her."

"Good. Don't let me hear of you associating with her or those of her ilk again."

"No sir." Jet readily agreed. "I fully intend to avoid further acquaintance with any of them."

"And as for your act of heroism?" Mr. Moore pursued. "I have never known you to show any proclivity toward that trait before."

"I never knew I possessed it myself. It came on as a fit of passion - I was not wholly aware of what I was doing until it had been done." It was no excuse, rather the simple truth of the matter. It would earn him no favor to pretend that this was merely an unnoted aspect of himself or that there was a more noble reason for his actions - the instinct of a brother to protect a sister, or a man to protect a woman - his father was correct in his assessment of his son.

"I request, in the future, you would learn to control such fits of passion. A one time act of charitable heroism will improve your reputation - a habit of it will harm your ability to do business. Nobility, as a trait, is the pursuit of those who wish to know the Lord not those who wish to become them." his elder admonished.

"Understood." Jet answered. Mr. Moore turned his attention now to the man standing by Jet's side.

"Mr. Wyndham, are you merely here to stand stupidly in solidarity with you friend or do you have an actual reason for your attendance in this family matter?"

"Yes sir, I believe you have hit the nail squarely on the head." Arthur replied with a winning grin.

"Oh, and how is that might I ask?" Mr. Moore raised his eyebrows mockingly.

"Well sir, it is a matter of family. I have come to request your permission to marry your daughter, Elizabeth." Jet reeled backward slightly, but Arthur caught his arm, keeping him upright. That the moment would come had never been in doubt, but that it would come now!

"Typically cavalier, even regarding the most important of subjects. May I assume the lady has given her assent?" Mr. Moore queried.

"She has." Arthur replied. Jet was astonished - had so much happened while he was away?

"Mr. Wyndham, you have a well known reputation for scandal and philandering - why should I surrender my daughter to your tender mercies? I have no desire for her to become the subject of pity and ridicule on account of your activities - nor do I desire to be linked through marriage to such a man." the elder Moore thrust to the heart of the matter.

"I cannot fault you for your evaluation of my proclivities, certainly you have borne witness to them from my birth. But you are also aware of the ardent love I have for your daughter. I could not bear to make a fool of her. Have not I shown, since the start of our courtship, my most single-minded devotion? My aversion to all activity or relation that could cause any harm to her?" the younger man returned ably.

"I cannot deny in these past months you have been much altered. But a man may change and then, once the inciting reason for the change is obtained, return to his previous state. You know it to be true."

"I do. Yet I can assure you that I shall never return to the man I once was. Miss Elizabeth has allowed my best nature to grow and thrive through her tender care of it. I love her and, I believe, she loves me - I should desire that once I can call her my own I should call none other by that name."

"Jet, you have known this roustabout as one knows a brother - do you feel I should approve this union? As you are the one who shall be most affected by an unfortuitous marriage I shall allow you to make the final decision." Mr. Moore deferred to his son. Jet considered for a moment.

"While I certainly do concede that if the union fails or becomes the subject of scandal I should find my business relations in a rather precarious position; I believe that such a risk is reasonable to take in this matter. Particularly as the risk would be similar with any potential suitor. Arthur is very much a changed man, and it is on account of his affection for Elizabeth that he is so. I do not believe he would risk the loss of her affections for any small worldly pleasure. Besides, the two shall never be happy unless they be joined to each other - any other attempts to find a suitable gentleman for her would be an exercise in futility." Jet shrugged.

"Thanks for the ringing endorsement, mate." Arthur whispered into his ear.

"Then I must accept that there is nothing for it." Mr. Moore proclaimed. "Arthur Wyndham Duke of _shire, you have been as much a son to me as my own born, I welcome you as one from hence forth. You have my permission to marry my daughter."

"Thank you sir." Arthur bowed. "I shall not give you reason to regret it."

"I should hope not. Now off with the both of you - I have business to attend to." Mr. Moore shooed the two boys from the room. The moment Jet shut the door Arthur wrapped him in an ecstatic embrace.

"We did it, mate! We did it!" Jet peeled Arthur from him.

"I'm a bit surprised he accepted the first request. Perhaps he felt it was more efficient - I cannot believe you should have ever ceased to hound him until he relented." Jet could not resist teasing his elated friend.

"Jet, we're going to be brothers now! For real and true." Arthur grinned. Jet placed his hands on both of Arthur's shoulders, looking him squarely in the eye.

"Then Artie, as my first duty as your brother, I suggest you inform your bride." Jet was grinning almost as widely as Arthur now. Arthur could scarcely contain himself.

"Good point mate!" he readily agreed. He ran off, Jet could hear him almost singing down the hall "I'm going to marry the most beautiful girl in the world!" He shook his head and walked over to the window with a garden view. A few minutes later his patience was rewarded by the site of Arthur running to his bride-to-be and lifting her from the ground in an embrace much to the shock of her companion. This was followed closely by her own shrill ecstatic cry. Jet turned away to grant the pair their moment and meandered back down the hall towards the garden.


	9. Chapter 8

The matters of the engagement moved along swiftly. The Wedding ceremony was set for early December, only a fortnight prior to the date Jet was to return to London. There were many preparations to make. While there could be no question regarding the position of Best Man, Elizabeth found herself in want of a Maid. She had no sisters but Philomena, who would be in no condition to attend the ceremony at all by that time, and her childhood friends had proven themselves unworthy of the title or the expense. She had no cousins of appropriate age nor did Arthur. Still, she had not been wholly without companion through the season. After much deliberation she requested that Miss Mason stand with her for the ceremony - a role her new friend had been honored to accept. It was only sensible; for it was well accepted within the household that it would not be so long before the now Miss Mason would become Lady Moore. As Ingrid was often present at the house fulfilling both her duties as a friend and as a bridesmaid Jet was easily able to contrive ways to casually meet with her. Most often he found her in the Library, but when the day was fine he would frequently come upon her in the garden. One particularly fine morning her came upon her sitting on a large decorative stone beside the carnations. "Miss Mason, I did not expect to come upon you today." He greeted her with a knowing smile.

"Lord Moore, I am glad to see you. No, I was not anticipating a visit today but Elizabeth requested I attend the Engagement dinner with the Duchess this evening and I had no reason to refuse her. The season was very difficult for her and I suppose she does not wish to be alone with only her elders. She feels certain that having my presence will somehow calm her nerves. Chester, what sort of woman is the Duchess?" Ingrid asked.

"She... " Jet started and thought for a moment. "Well, there is no point in being delicate about the matter. She is a difficult and exacting woman. She is very traditional in all ways. It's not that she does not like Elizabeth, she has expressed a fondness for her in the past which I believe to be genuine, but she simply is not comfortable with my sister. Conversation between the two of them is often stilted and painful to observe. Though I have rarely observed it for she doesn't care for my presence at all."

"Why not?" Ingrid viewed him quizzically.

"I believe it had to do with Arthur and I building a castle out of all of the books in the Library one particularly dreary day... or it could have been the time we managed to accidentally break the banister off of the main stair... or the morning when we raided the pantry and accidentally took the main dinner party entree and fed it to a stray dog... unstrung the harpsichord... To be fair those are merely the first events that come to mind. Now that I've started I'm quite certain I could continue for hours." Ingrid giggled lightly into her hand.

"I believe I can understand her reasoning then. You two must have been quite wild."

"I wouldn't say that. The use of past tense is rather presumptuous." a devilish grin spread across his face.

"Oh dear." she gently smiled back at him. He offered his hand to her, she accepted pulling herself up.

"I would not worry about the Duchess, for all her strict ways she is not a cruel person. She and my mother have been the most intimate of friends since well before I was born. I will tell you Elizabeth was quite right to invite you as the lady adores people from other lands and she will almost certainly ask you about every aspect of your life there - from the snow to the stockings."

"The stockings!" Ingrid laughed. Jet looked at her with mock seriousness.

"Oh yes, she will be most concerned with that particular item so be prepared to give a lengthy account of them." The two smiled and continued their stroll in silence for a time. "So, do you like our carnations?"

"Oh yes, very much. They are so beautiful and so many colors!" Ingrid gushed.

"Are carnations your favorite flower then?" Jet inquired.

"No, but they were Lady Danvers' favorite flower. I like to sit among them and think of her. She used to tell me of them when she would come to visit. I asked her to bring me some and I would plant them for her so she could always come back and see them but she told me they would not do well where we lived." she replied sadly.

"I take it you and she were very close?" the two continued to stroll but more slowly now. She looked to him,

"Yes, she was my Godmother and just like a second mother to me. She and Lord Danvers used to visit us every Christmas until the year of her death." her voice caught. "I remember every year we would be celebrating the feast when there would come a knock on the door and a loud voice would boom 'Are there any good children in this house?' and Grandfather would say 'No, just this troublesome slip of a girl, but you may come in and warm yourself anyways.' and then he would open the door and reveal Lord Danvers all dressed up as Jultom- Father Christmas... with Lady Danvers behind carrying a sack of the most glorious presents! We would play at 'School' with the dolls for hours on end. It was how she taught me to speak English."

"She taught you very well." Jet said by way of a compliment.

"Yes. I am glad that I am able to see Lord Danvers again. He was not able to visit after Lady Danvers died because my baby Godbrother, Frederick, was too young to travel that far. Now that he is old enough to visit me there, here I am!" She laughed musically at this irony.

"Have you seen much of them since your arrival?" Jet furthered.

"Oh yes, but not nearly as much as I would like. Were it my decision alone I should never leave! My little Godbrother loves to get into all kinds of things. He is so very curious! We play around the house all day and at night I help him read his Bible stories. The English is harder in that book but we are learning together." Her eyes sparkled as she detailed her time at Lord Danvers house: the food, the hospitality, and the good company of the host and his son. Her enthusiasm carried her for some time, gleefully accounting some of even the most mundane tasks as though they were grand adventures. Jet found himself entirely captivated by her: her animated face, her glorious smile, those eyes that twinkled like stars, the way she moved her hands to try to better illustrate her points when her words failed to properly convey them, the way she was so enraptured by a world he had long grown weary with. She was a beacon of light on a dusky and dim evening and he felt himself inexorably drawn to her.

"How have you found the people England so far beyond the families Moore and Danvers?" Jet asked.

"They are a very different sort than what I am accustomed to. I lived with my Grandfather on the family farm most of the time and had little exposure to Court for most of my life. My life was very simple and the people we saw very open and friendly - though perhaps that was only because of familiarity." she attempted to mitigate the strangeness of those around her.

"No, I'm sorry to say familiarity would not aid you much in these parts - perhaps in the lower classes - but in the gentry it is important to keep a respectable distance. As the daughter of a Count I'm sure you have noticed the distinction." Jet observed.

"I wish I could say I did; but Grandfather was a gentleman farmer and he did not feel that my rank in England should have an affect on my life with him. Mother agreed with him, as she always did, and so I never truly felt the weight of my rank. I scarcely ever met my father until this year. I should not know how I would have grown in a world of governesses and sedentary accomplishments. Father was horrified when he found my greatest accomplishments were not with the needle or pen but with the gymnastic hoop and the management of crops and livestock." Ingrid smiled. "So he insisted it was time to begin the English portion of my education so I could become a true lady."

"I should say, it has been quite effective. No one would suspect you had ever been one to consort with cattle." She giggled politely.

"I suppose he was worried that on my current course I was as likely to marry a horse groom as a gentleman." Jet raised an eyebrow.

"Were you?" Ingrid turned her face modestly from the gentleman.

"No, I do not believe there was ever a danger of that. I had a few suitors but I preferred none of them." she answered honestly.

"And have you found any who you have preferred since?" Jet pressed gently. Her face seemed to turn quite a pleasing shade of pink.

"Perhaps." she answered shyly. Jet put out his arm as an invitation and took no small amount of pride and pleasure feeling those small, nimble fingers press gently upon its crook. The two continued their tour of the garden in this manner until such time as Ingrid had to excuse herself to prepare for her dinner with the Duchess.

Jet watched from an upper floor window as her coach drove from sight. "Are you going to marry her?" a small voice asked from beside him. He had not noticed that he was being observed; the child had moved with the slightness one learns from years among animals.

"Most likely." Jet answered his younger brother without turning his gaze from the spot the coach had disappeared at a moment earlier.

"Oh." Avery replied. He stood beside his sibling, keeping the same vigil. Seeing the two next to each other was much like looking at a mirror into the past, or perhaps the future if one were uncharitable to the potential of the small boy. Avery possessed the same sandy blond hair, bright blue eyes, and thin frame - though significantly less pale and wasted - he was every piece his brother in healthy miniature. He was well formed for his age and build, having earned strong rope-like muscles and a ruddy complexion from his time among the horses. Still, he was small. Height having not been gained by his elder self until his sixteenth year, it was expected the younger would follow the same pattern. "Why?" Jet thought for a moment how to best phrase such a thing for the young.

"Well, she's very pretty. And she is very nice... She comes from a very good family."

"Oh." Avery answered again. His face screwed up slightly as though he were pondering a difficult concept, finally he spoke:"Do you love her?" Now it was Jet's turn to think. He gazed out the window for some time before he answered the child.

"No." he said truthfully. "But I like her very much. I am certain, in time, I could grow to love her most ardently. Even if I could not I am certain we would still be quite happy with the arrangement."

"Does she love you?" the boy inquired. Jet once again found himself forced to consider this question.

"No, I am certain she does not. But I believe she does harbor a partiality towards me which, with proper tending, may grow and flower into something quite enviable. She would be a fine wife and, I imagine, a good mother - I should never regret her as the companion of my life. Her rank and connection would be quite beneficial for the future growth of our business." Jet answered. The child seemed pacified for the moment. Avery blew on the glass creating a fine fog of condensation on which he began to draw what looked like a long legged dog next to a chubby stick pony. "You had better stop that. Father will take a switch to you if he sees finger-markings on the windows." Jet scolded. The child continued to draw his picture.

"At least then he may notice I still live here." he said absently but with clear intention. He added a round representation of what was most likely the sun. Jet was struck dumb by the words. Certainly, he had never wholly considered Avery's plight. With father and child both often holed up in the house for days with no great pressing engagements he had naturally assumed a level of intimacy such a blunt statement belied. But then, he had never seen his father once praise the boy, or play with him; to be sure he could not even recall his father acknowledging Avery at all on occasion when they were together. Then, neither did he, nor did Philomena, and Elizabeth - who could have been claimed to have been his closest companion in the family; though even then only an occasional playmate - had been wholly devoured, in her attentions, by Arthur. He had no companion in Mother: pale and perpetually ill at ease, she felt no compulsion to coddle and attend to her sons once they had left the nursery. He was a child lost among a world of adults; all wrapped within their own affairs and giving no account to his. Jet thought to himself, by way of a compulsion, that perhaps he should take an interest in his young doppleganger - but then, who was he? A fine example for his brother to follow! There could be no question; it would be better for Avery to suffer in solitude than follow Jet's path.

"Well, use your sleeve to wipe it when you are finished." Jet finally replied. Turning on his heel he began to walk away but his step was halted by his name being called by that childish voice.

"Jet?" Avery hailed.

"Yes?" Jet did not look back but could still clearly picture those large blue eyes trained upon him, pleading for companionship.

"Would you like to ride horses with me this afternoon? I just broke in a lovely dapple gray and she could use a good run." Jet winced.

"Perhaps another time." he answered. He continued down the hall toward the stair.

In his office Jet considered the matter carefully. He had little doubt of his unsuitability for the job of mentor for the child, even the stable hands were a far better influence than he! He had contemplated the matter of a companion for Avery for quite some time before he came on a solution. Ingrid had mentioned earlier Lord Danvers' son Frederick. He had never particularly been concerned about the child and had thus never considered him. The child should have been well into his seventh year by now - perhaps a bit young for an effective match but easily old enough to begin to learn the art of riding. A student would allow Avery a chance to be admired for his skill. There could be no doubt that this would be a beneficial relationship that would pay great dividends. Even though he was quite young, Frederick was the heir to Donnerel Hall, its fortunes and its ventures. Fostering closeness between the younger generation would certainly promote continued closeness in business relations. At the very least this might keep the boy from trouble until such time as he was old enough to attend Eton - then it was Avery's own affair the path he chose. Jet dashed off a note inviting Lord Danvers to supper the following week and suggesting his son accompany.

Any misgivings Jet may have weighed regarding the introduction of Avery and Frederick were quickly forgotten. As he had suspected, Avery relished his role as master and Frederick proved to be an apt pupil quickly learning the skills Avery taught. The arrangement also had the added benefit of increasing the presence of Lord Danvers and Miss Mason, whom he often served as chaperone for (albeit a lax one), at the house. The days grew shorter as the Wedding approached. Lord Danvers; who could, in all honesty, be called the founder of their relationship; proved to be its architect as well. He seemed to take a particular joy in cultivating their courtship. He would often hint to Jet some of Ingrid's favorite things. "She adores Dandelions, but is rather indifferent to roses." he informed Jet before he presented her with a bouquet of the latter. Her joy as she pressed her face into the fluffy yellow down of two dozen dandelions was palpable - he could not help but laugh when she looked up with tiny flecks of yellow clinging to her long, pale eyelashes and speckling her translucent skin. "She plays the guitar quite well." he suggested "But she was unable to bring one with her as her father abhors the sound." A situation Jet rectified by offering her use of their music room which had lately, unbeknownst to her, gained a guitar. "She enjoys stories from America." Jet gave him a look but Lord Danvers just shrugged. As Christmas approached Jet was pleased to be able to obtain a copy of 'Little Women', a noted American book for girls, for his favorite. Whether or not he loved her seemed dreadfully irrelevant - he loved to see her pleased. Despite his duty to be an attentive chaperone Lord Danvers often seemed to be easily distracted from his task, allowing the two to often slip away. Jet soon realized that this was less a favor and more a show of trust in the integrity of his charge for, when he recovered the pair, it was always in the garden or at the stables or in the Library when the weather was sour. It seemed Ingrid enjoyed nothing more than watching Freddy as he learned his paces. Often she persuaded Jet to ride with her and the youths about the park or, when Freddy had advanced in skill, to sit with her in the buggy while Freddy drove the little white pony. Now having obtained the age of eight, Freddy had grown into a fine lad - already he was taller than Avery - who possessed quite a talent for driving horses. Arthur had watched the boy take the sleigh out after the first snow and laughed that perhaps the child might spare he and Elizabeth the expense of a carriage driver for the wedding. It would be on one of these sleigh rides just days before the nuptials were to occur that Jet would, observing her loveliness with her flushed cheeks, bright eyes, and lips reddened by the cold, finally give her a gentle kiss. She grew suddenly silent looking down at the carriage floor.

"I apologize if I was too forward." Jet sputtered quickly.

"No, it is not that." Ingrid replied. "I have just never been kissed before. I - I think I should like to be kissed again." Jet smiled and acquiesced to her wish. The two spent the remainder of the ride sitting quietly but leaning shoulder to shoulder, the red on their cheeks from the cold hiding the depths of emotion the small, innocent act had excited. Ingrid smiled gently at her suitor as the now present Lord Danvers took her hand to aid her descent from the sleigh. It was then Jet resolved that, following his sojourn to London, he should make of that woman his wife. Ingrid now being safely stewarded by Freddy to the house Lord Danvers found a moment to speak with his partner.

"So, how does my young Christian fare in his quest to woo my cousin?" The man laughed heartily, his belly shaking as a warm pudding.

"I should say quite well. Were it not for my upcoming trip to town I should propose following the wedding, but it shall have to wait until I can properly attend to the matter. I believe I owe you a great debt for all you have done to aid us. Your cousin is everything she promised to be and more beyond that." Lord Danvers laughed still more at this comment.

"Well my boy," he clapped the younger man on the back. "I wish you all the best."


	10. Chapter 9

The Wedding Day arrived and passed without incident. In the days following Arthur and Elizabeth left England for an Italian honeymoon with Miss Mason in tow as Elizabeth's companion. Jet took his leave as well for London and the house of Lord and Lady Cox.

The London house the Cox family maintained was substantial, even extravagant in its furnishings and decor. Thick velvet, ornate wall paper, endless mouldings and deeply veined marble, deep cherries and new world woods seemed to surround the visitor with a sense of something beyond opulence; it was pure decadence - a proper reflection of its tenets. Jet arrived at the great limestone edifice that marked the entrance of the house early on a dreary evening three days prior to Christmas. The Footman received him at the door. "Lord and Lady Cox are in the Drawing room with the other guests; they request you join them - at your leisure, of course. Rodgers will take you to your room." Jet followed the servant down a long hallway of ornately carved dark wood panels to a large bedroom.

"You may leave my bags at the doorway." Jet ordered dismissively. The man released the bags as commanded.

"Will there be anything else, sir?" he inquired.

"No, thank you. Tell the Master I shall join the party within the hour." Jet replied stiffly.

"Very good, sir." The footman turned and left to deliver the message. Jet released a sigh, allowing himself to fall backward upon the large four post bed. He lay there for a moment stretched out, his muscles finally releasing after a day of long, cramped travel. Still, he could only allow himself a few minutes of comfort - his hosts were not of the temperament to tolerate lengthy waits once their quarry was within sight. He brought himself back to a sitting position and surveyed the room. The wallpaper was ivory in shade with a green floral pattern arranged in vertical strips. There was a door that led to a small but well appointed dressing room and toilet. He strode over to a large gilded mirror above the dry sink. He took in the image: pale - as was usual - less peakish though, the festivities had added a little flesh to his form, filling those parts that had become sunken. His eyes were dark but that was likely weariness from travel that sleep would easily remedy. He took a moment to fix his hair which had fallen out of place a good deal from the various bumps and turns of the coach. He took a fresh bowtie from his bag and quickly undid the wilted one that hung, limply, about his neck; removing it with a whip-like flourish. He quickly tied the new one, adjusting it smartly and adjusted his coat. He splashed water from the ceramic bowl on his face - it was cold as ice! Still it woke him. He let out a deep breath. He was in no way ready to spend the evening with Lord and Lady Cox, perhaps he should have lied that the coach had come into trouble and spent the night at a public house, but it was too late for such clever plots now. Examining his face one last time, he exited the room for the Drawing Room.

Lady Cox greeted him, waving him in from the doorway. "Lord Moore, please do join us! It has been far too long since we have been graced with your company." She parted her red lips widely smiling as a viper on its favorite prey. In many ways she seemed to be attempting to match the room which had been decorated with red velvet furniture, crimson patterned wallpaper, and dark rosewood wainscoting. Her dress was of a dark burgundy hue cut to best accentuate her natural features, her face rouged, her kid slippers vermilion - she was the devil and this was her domain.

"Lady Cox, it is lovely to see you again." Jet took her hand, pressing it briefly.

"You must meet my friends!" she said dragging him to a small knot of people gathered around a bar. "My husband you know, of course. This is Lord Huntington" she indicated to a fluffy haired man who could be called handsome but for a strangeness about his mouth. The gentleman tipped his head. "and Lady Rutherford, Lady Gesque from the continent, Lord Fullson, Countess-"

"Erlyton. Yes, we met at the ball in -shire. It is a pleasure to see you again." Jet interrupted. Lady Cox made a small pout momentarily but quickly replaced it with that horrible plastered on faux grin.

"The pleasure is all mine Lord Moore." the Countess replied with a sly look.

"And, of course, our guest of honor: Docktor Waxweiler, my personal apothecary. He mixes the most fantastic drinks." she indicated to the man standing behind the bar.

"Danke schon, mien liebe." the man acknowledged her praise with a nod. He was a man of somewhat advanced age. His face was deeply lined which only accented its natural sharply edge tri-cornered shape which only was furthered sharpened by the tight-lipped smile he wore. What was left of his hair was neatly cropped close to the scalp. He had large round glasses which reflected the dancing candlelight in a way that unsettled Jet.

"Come now and sit for a spell, you must be exhausted from your journey!" Lady Cox indicated to a velvet upholstered oaken chair, Jet followed her suggestion. He felt himself sink into the soft cushioning. "I'll have Dr. Waxweiler make you one of his specialties." The lady ran her fingers across his shoulders as she passed back to the bar. The fire burned warmly and he finally began to relax. Perhaps it would not be such an unpleasant experience to take the holidays here - the company was of a decent sort and certainly Lord Huntington would likely serve a welcome distraction for the Lady of the House. He seemed the type that would welcome such... distractions. Lady Cox returned with his drink which he took with thanks. It was a dark brew with an odor reminiscent of pomegranates. He took a sip. It had a mildly fruity taste, smooth, with no deep burn. Jet drained the whole glass in short order.

And then he lost a fortnight.

He awoke hugging the mattress of a bed, feeling quite sore. "Uggh..." he moaned. His eyelids felt heavy and swollen. He sensed a strange burning sensation on his arm but was not yet certain it was worth the effort required to examine the spot.

"Well, it's good to see you're finally awake." Jet's eyes flew open at the sound of the woman's voice at the opposite end of the room, only to be forced into a squint at the bright sunlight streaming in from the window. He glanced painfully about the room, white and gold accented furnishings only reflected the tormenting sun. Seated on a stool before the vanity, running a brush through her long, gleaming hair, sat Lady Cox - seemingly more interested in her own reflection than the young man lying in her bed.

"Ugghhh" he groaned. "What happened?"

"You really don't recall?" Lady Cox replied with a haughty smirk. Jet closed his eyes and tried to focus for a moment. He couldn't so much picture the memories as feel them crawling across his skin, about it, inside just below the surface. The sensation made him suddenly nauseous. In his mind flashed vague images; a face, a limb, a joint, a body of someone but who he could not connect to the part. Colors. He saw the face of Dr. Waxweiler laughing, he saw that dark pomegranate liquid, the world tilted and shifted about him and skewed scenes of a most alarming nature appeared before him, flashed in his memory for a moment, and vanished to be replaced by another. He seemed to be watching himself committing acts disturbing to even his addled brain. He winced to chase the horrors away. "Don't worry, Charles was a bit too preoccupied to join in. It seems only one man holds his attention these days." she finished in mild disgust. Jet looked to her; groping for some sense of time and place.

"Is it Christmas yet?" he moaned. She laughed mirthlessly.

"My dear, Christmas has come and gone, and New Years with it. We are over a week into the new year - you've been asleep for the last two days. Though, that is not surprising, for I don't believe you have slept since you arrived." With every word she uttered Jet felt more and more as though he had lost his footing on the sane world and had entered another realm. He raised himself slightly to take a look at his arm which seemed to still be burning just above the elbow joint. There, glowing brightly in crimson, were two near identical dashed arches forming something of an oval shape. "I believe you have Countess Erlyton to thank for that." Lady Cox informed him with a half smile - her feigned disinterest beginning to break at the force of her sheer glee. He stared in utter shock at the deep bite for a moment. Then a set of short scratches on his forearm caught his eye, when he raised himself to better see those it was then he saw his stomach. His hands ran quickly up his trunk following his eyes until they reached his chest. It seemed every inch was covered by scratches, some short and singular, some long with multiple companions running parallel. A few had scabbed over but many still appeared rather fresh. He felt reason slipping from his grasp. His breath came fast and heavy.

"What did you do to me?!" he cried out, panicked. Lady Cox abruptly put her brush down on the vanity with a sharp rap. She turned to face him.

"Nothing you didn't want. You were quite wild." her voice was one of pure annoyance. Jet felt as though he might faint, or become ill, possibly both. "Really now, I cannot understand you! It's like you've become a completely different person since I last knew you. Perhaps it is because of that little Swedish turnip you've taken such an interest in?" her sweet tone barely concealing the bitterness beneath. "It is of no matter, you shall tire of her in time. Then I shall deliver you from the monotony of matrimony back to the caresses of sensualism. But truly, I am disappointed in you - I had thought you above such inferior concepts." She sighed heavily as though to convey the depth of her chagrin and returned to her brushing. Jet was without response, truly he could have no words - for none exist - to convey his absolute abhorrence for this utterly depraved creature before him. He sat for a moment in silence. Finally, he gathered his wits - for they had temporarily wholly left him - and located his shirt. He quietly pulled his arm through a sleeve, then the other. He exhaled sharply; the pain that came from the gentle brush of fabric upon his back gave him to know his front had not been singled out for excoriation. He dressed stiffly, trying to avoid making an exhibition of his affliction for the amusement of his audience whose face he could see reflected in the vanity mirror - the vantage point from which she could spy upon her badly abused conquest. Her eyes danced with a perverse, hateful glee. Had it only been two seasons past that he had found her so very intriguing? Had he not enjoyed, to the fullest, her appetites? Those cold, shark-like eyes - hadn't he once so admired their detachment from the fatuus emotion of man? Her malignant nature now fully revealed itself in those horrible empty eyes. There could be no other course, this was intolerable.

"I'll send for my things." He stated, fixing his trousers properly about him.

"Oh," she sounded vaguely surprised. "Are you leaving so soon?"

"Yes, I promised I should only remain for the Holidays and I have done so. The Holidays being well passed accomplished I find I need to be about other business in town. Please convey to your husband my thanks for his generous hospitality." There was the sharp rap of the brush on the vanity again.

"We did not expect your departure today; it is most uncouth to leave without even attending a proper breakfast." She stared through him with those icy, penetrating eyes, he felt as if his innards were freezing before them. He mustered his resolve.

"I do apologize but my business is rather urgent and I simply cannot delay it further. Now if you will please excuse me." he made to leave the room when he felt a sharp weight suddenly come into contact with his temple. It did not hurt so much as it surprised him. He looked to Lady Cox who seemed suddenly overly interested in her powder box and then to the ground where the ivory inlaid brush lay near his feet. He plucked it from its resting place and gently lay it on the bed. "I believe you dropped your brush Lady Cox. Good bye." He exited the room with great haste; closing the door fast behind him. As he hurriedly walked down the hall to the main door - eyes set, upper spine tensed, shoulders squared - he could feel the wrath of Lady Cox following behind him, filling the hall parts he had just passed like malignant black shadows. The footman met him at the door. "Please have my things sent to the Great Western Royal." he spoke without even a glance to the man - he could feel himself almost tear through the door, not delaying even to let the man open it for him. He burst from the doorway into the bright light of day, yet he did not stop, he was determined to put as much distance between himself and that house as possible. For an hour he walked without direction or thought until London began to shrink behind him and fields rose about to take its place - only then, when he was fully free from its confines did he slow his pace.

There could be no question: whatever attempt at amends Father had hoped to make with this visit was in shambles. Lady Cox would only forgive such an insult with the humiliating sniveling servitude that could be exacted. And his pride simply would not allow him to debase himself so much further in order to secure her goodwill. The investment of such a house was not worth the price in dignity he would be forced to pay. His rage burned against the woman. He paced the lonely path for some time. It was certainly one thing to choose to debauch himself; he had never been one to deny himself when a morsel was readily offered - still, to lose all sense in the process; to be persuaded to such an animal state, through the lubrication of a drug, that he had fully abandoned his dignity - his humanity! - in the pursuit of physical pleasures galled him. To be encouraged, in that frenetic state, to engage in the most wanton acts by a Lady! No doubt she had enjoyed the show! He spat on the ground. She would know the origin of every mark on his frame, of course - he was her pet! All bought and paid for! Oh! He recalled those eyes on him now; watching him every moment - drinking in every second. He felt the skin of his back crawl as though those eyes were still upon him. No doubt it had all been to remind him of his proper place at her foot as it is with any dog - just in case his dalliances with Miss Mason might have caused him to forget. But in her attempt to secure her position, she had forfeited it. He would have no further consort with that house, nor would any of his household! Nor would Arthur - he would make sure to dissolve that particular connection; Arthur could not have reason to object. He was a man of worldy pleasures - there could be no doubt of that - but such behavior was beyond even his lax standards! Jet surveyed the horizon, hands resting firmly on his hips. It was still only mid-morning. Now it occurred to him that he was wholly unaware of where he was beyond that the city was well behind him. Still, it was only a matter of retracing his steps to find his way back to familiar territory - he could not have been walking more than two hours and the road had been quite straight; at least he did not recall making any turns. A few minutes walk gave him to know how very lost he was; a fork in the road appeared before him. He had not been attending to his surroundings enough to have noted it before and now he was quite at a loss as to which direction he had come. He stood weighing both his options: were he correct, he would soon know it; were he not, it was of little matter, he had no grand desire to be reminded of the consequences of his rash behavior just yet. "Well, perhaps, for once in my sorry life," he declared to no one, for there was no one around to hear. "I shall choose the right."

He walked on for several hours. He had always considered himself somewhat an expert in the cartography of London but he discovered quickly that when lost the familiar takes on such a strange tone as to make itself unrecognizable even to its oldest friends. He was halfway down Lisson Grove before he recognized a local public house he had frequented in his past visits. 'It must be past dinner by now.' he thought to himself, suddenly having grand visions of plump quail and tender shepherd's pie. He had not had breakfast and, if what Lady Cox had said were true, he had not indulged in any meals for two days at the very least. Hunger, previously content to sit quietly as more immediate issues were addressed, now came roaring to the forefront. Jet let himself in, taking a seat near the corner. He had no memory of ever having eaten quite so much as he consumed in that single sitting - he put away a quail, a meat pie, and some old spot sausages with mash, followed immediately by a roasted root soup. By the time he was halfway through a treacle tart he began to finally come back to himself, his mind able to truly think clearly about his current situation. It seemed odd to him, when he considered it rationally, to have thrown away such a beneficial relationship as that one had been - and over what? What reason could he possibly have had to act in such a rash manner? It was true the extent of Lady Cox's perversions had shocked his sensibilities - or was it her absolute indifference? She took no joy but from her pets, as he was, and even that was of a detached variety. Or perhaps it was simply her assertion that he had in some way changed. Had he, it was a change he was unaware of! Looking back of the past few months he could see a string of behavior he had never been inclined to before. It seemed a vein of something strange still occupied a place in his head - that something that confounding woman had awakened and neither drink nor drug nor lickerish pleasure seemed able to wholly conquer. Unconsciously, Jet found himself drawn to the idea of seeing that spiteful little wench again. He pictured himself seeking out the Salvationists - maybe he would even ladle soup from their kettles to fill the wooden trenchers of those poor luckless souls! He chuckled to himself at the ridiculous image. But wouldn't she enjoy seeing him so humble! Oh! She would crow over him like a rooster were he to show his face. The work of God in even his black heart! "Well, God" he said quietly in jest "If you are going to do something do it now; for I shall make no effort to see her otherwise."

Now, full to the point of discomfort, Jet was quite prepared to face the day he had started in a more proper, almost pleasant, frame of mind. Though it was quite cold the sun felt warm upon his shoulders. Any regret he felt in regards to his actions that morning melted away as frost on the green. The loss, though keen, was not insurmountable. Perhaps it would even prove fortuitous - a life of scandal and licentiousness was certain to eventually bear the most bitter fruit and when that time arrived it was best to be known as one who had cut ties before such cuts were socially necessary. His mood elevated by the wisdom of his impetuousness as well as the agreeable weather; he decided to take a detour through Hyde Park. As he approached the edge he noticed a rather large boisterous, crowd gathered around Speaker's Corner. "Oh ho! What is this? Looks like I may be able to take in a show." he quipped. Even from this distance he could hear the crowd's derisive laughter. He observed two women next to him speaking:

"Can you believe it? The idea is simply preposterous!" The one said to the other.

"Women voting!" the other laughed. "Why even bother? A woman will only vote with her husband. And what kind of man would let his woman do such a thing?"

"Not a gentleman!" He heard a man from near the front ask a question.

"The Bible says a woman is supposed to be subservient to man - that's why she was created ya'know, to help man!" Jet could hear murmurs of agreement from the crowd.

"You tell 'er mate!" another male voice encouraged the first.

"So then: why do you think it is okay to go against the very plan of God?" the questioner finished smugly.

"To that I say to you Deborah was a Judge; Anna, a prophetess; and what of the daughters of Zelophehad? I say to you God has never meant for women to be silent servants of man but as servants of God. Think of Esther - had she not been more concerned with God than with her role as wife, then we would have no Good News at all!" Oh no. Oh he knew that voice. He threaded through the audience to see, perched upon a wooden crate before the crowd, Sergeant Major Bertha Smith in all her infuriating glory.

"Damn you." He said, glancing up to the sky.

"If the good Lord had meant for women to speak for Him, then why did He tell them to be silent in services?" the man countered.

"That was Paul. And he was speaking about the synagogue - if you look at the way women were treated in the early church, for example Phoebe, Dorcas, Timothy's moth-"

"And how many of them stood on a box in the square demanding the vote?" a chorus of shouts in agreement answered him. She tried to respond but the crowd drowned her out. Still she held herself with her usual arrogant dignity.

"Oh Gawdammit! Button your lip for once in your bloody life!" The crowd stood in silence staring at Jet. He had not fully realized quite how loudly he had said that, though from the general reaction he could guess he had shouted it above the din. That frustrating woman! Even she had stopped speaking and was standing stock still, her mouth slightly parted in some argument that had fallen dead from her lips, looking for the blasphemer in the sea of faces. "That's right, you heard me." he said picking his way through the crowd to the front. "It'll be enough to have to deal with your yammering for the rest of the day on my own, but do leave these poor souls to go about their business." He stepped from behind a man into the open. He doubted he imagined that sudden wide smile that vanished almost as soon as it had broke upon her face; a more familiar expression took its place - lowered eyelids, a haughty smile, an upturned chin - this was the Bertie he knew.

"Oh Mr. Moore. You grace my fair protest with your noble presence. To what do I owe this honor?"

"I would be inclined to blame your God if blame were to be assigned and the presence of the parties were irrelevant." He allowed a taunting smile to dance upon his lips.

"Watch yourself, Mr. Moore, you cut very close to a confession of atheism."

"What I should chose to confess on that particular subject is of little concern to you." He approached Bertie, who stepped down from the box lightly. The two circled each other slowly.

"I should say such a thing concerns me greatly, as it is my mission in life to combat that very ill."

"Then I suppose you may wish to sharpen your sword in case your tongue fails to cut me to pieces from excessive use." from behind him Jet heard laughter - apparently, he had entirely forgotten the crowd who were witness to this entire affair. He smiled and gave a nod of acknowledgement to them. "It seems your audience may agree with my assessment of your arms as they have been subjected to them for some time now."

"And you would divorce yourself from them as well as your God? Were you not watching?"

"I was merely curious about the crowd. I should have figured it would be you at the center of it. I love the dress." Bertie flushed, her hands automatically fidgeting at the waist of mint green calico woolen dress. "I don't think I have ever seen you in anything that remotely resembled proper clothing."

"A soldier wears a uniform for their work, as do I."

"Then why the dress?" He raised an eyebrow.

"This is simply another uniform. I should hate for those who may not support my personal convictions to confuse them with the teachings of the Salvation Army."

"Ah, so they are not in accord with you on this point?"

"Not all, no. But a number are supporters of the cause."

"Well, as it so happens I support neither of your causes." He stretched out his arms magnanimously. "And I have a sneaking suspicion I never shall, nor any other that I may come to know of."

"We will see about that, the day is still young, and you said I had claim to the entirety of it." She slyly smiled.

"Did I?" Jet looked to the crowd with a dashing grin.

"If it'll get her out of here I'll swear on a stack of Bibles you did." A laborer from the crowd answered back. The pair were surrounded by uproarious laughter.

"Well, I suppose I cannot refute such veracity, and a gentlemen never goes back on his word. So my dear," he said with a gallant bow. "I am at your disposal for the day." Bertie looked to the mocking crowd as if deciding. Finally, she gave an exasperated sigh - it was quite clear their serious attention, now lost, could not be regained today.

"Perhaps God has a more pressing plan than my own. Sir, I welcome your company."

The two strolled through the park with no particular direction. "By your own admission, I might guess that you are an atheist." Bertha ventured.

"Now that would be telling! I must leave some mystery between us or you might grow bored of my companionship."

"As far as mysteries are concerned this one hardly requires a detective to solve. But if you are too ashamed to admit to it I shall not push you." She had deftly trapped him. Jet was piqued - either he must confess himself or, by lack of confession, appear to find his unbelief in the ridiculous as something shameful.

"I suppose you have found me out. I take no shame in my unbelief for it is upon reason that I base it. It is you, clever as you may see yourself, who should feel shame for believing in a children's fairy tale for so long when reason stands against it."

"I do not feel reason stands in opposition to God; nor could I take shame for believing in what I know to be true through the testimony of many and my own experience. Why all of nature, the very being of the human, bears witness to the existence of God. If we look back upon the generations of humanity we see people have always felt a need to find God - that alone, by reason, indicates that the existence of God must be considered if even the most primitive tribesman in blackest Africa seeks Him."

"The most primitive tribesman in blackest Africa seeks a "god" not your "God". And then only to explain the things about him that he cannot understand. Why is the mulberry bush red? Because two lovers killed themselves and the gods honored them. Why are the stars in the sky as they are? Because the gods ordered them that way for whatever reason - honor, glory, love. Then he uses that god to justify a system of laws to control others he makes up and calls "morals". When bad things happen he can placate the tribe by saying they did something to displease the god; when good things happen he can say that the god is on his side. He becomes the leader because of his ability to save his people from their god who would otherwise smite them for reasons that before would not have existed. God was created by man to elevate himself above other men - look to Rome if you don't believe me - and it is only through reason that we can see through the deceptions of man and banish these false gods from our civilized society."

"So you do not believe in moral laws?" Bertie queried.

"I believe some moral laws are based on what is most necessary for the running of an ordered society - afterall, we can't have everyone going about murdering others for no reason other than personal inclination - but that such laws, which are easily determined through reason, have nothing to do with morality. Most are merely a means of societal control. When is it right to kill? When the social order is threatened. When is revenge allowed? When not allowing it would cause men's anger at injustice to be such that it would cause the disruption of order. Why can't you marry outside your faith? Because if you do you might come to realize that the laws of the gods are arbitrary and only based upon the culture from which they come and what allows them the best way of controlling their people. And once you see that, how can you take any "moral law" seriously? I have tested most of the moral laws and found no harm to myself from breaking them one. by. one." He bared his teeth in a vicious grin. "As far as I have found God may exist for you but as for me, I can clearly say there is no God." Bertha pondered for a moment.

"I have a friend who doesn't believe in atoms." she said softly.

"And how does that figure? Is it Jim? He seems like the type that would be so willfully ignorant." Jet mocked.

"Who my friend is is not important to the point." Jet couldn't hide his snide smile - it was definitely Jim. "My friend says 'Look at that tree: I can touch it, I can lean on it, were I to run into it I would certainly injure myself - no one can deny it is a solid object. Yet science tells me that this tree is almost entirely made up of empty space - as empty as thin air - so by logic I should be able to pass through it, but I can't.'"

"That is some admirably poor logic. Science clearly tells us-"

"That is not my point." Bertie interrupted.

"Then do make it." said Jet with a slight flourish of his hand.

"My point is that my friend's belief in atoms, or unbelief in them as the case may be, in no way negates their existence. His reasoned - albeit bad - logic cannot for one moment make atoms suddenly disappear as though they had never been. Nor can atoms exist for me simply because I believe in them and not exist for him because he does not. Atoms are not fairies that can suddenly stop existing because he says he does not believe in them. So to with God. If God exists His existence is in no way dependent on our belief. If you were to state with all conviction that He does not exist He would not cease to exist. You may attempt to use logic to reason Him away, but you may find that your reason, based largely on human perception (which we know to be incomplete as we can't even perceive the tone of a dog whistle) is incomplete or faulty. And still, were your logic and science perfect, all the most glorious reasoning in the world could not magik Him away if He exists no matter how thoroughly you apply it." Jet stood for a moment considering her argument. It felt terribly trivial in content and yet he found it difficult to immediately counter.

"I'm sorry, do you mind if I sit for a moment? I've been walking most of the day and my legs are tired."

"Do as you please." Jet practically collapsed on a small grassy mound letting out a theatrical groan. Bertie primly sat herself nearby.

"That is much better!" He stretched his long body out on the cold grass; a sight that caused Bertie to blush and focus her attention on a barren tree across the way. He took out his flask and drank. "Then if your God is real, as you swear he is I posit to you He is a sadist. He crushes the good, murders the young, and rewards the evil. I need not provide examples for you have seen plenty, I am sure, but look at you and I. I live in joy and comfort indulging in every pleasure that strikes my fancy and you... got brained by a paving stone, among other things, while attempting to serve Him." His words seemed to strike Bertie.

"My God has seen millions of men come and go, He has known me from my birth and He knows I would willingly sacrifice my health or comfort or life itself if it meant one more soul might spend eternity with Him - if He chooses to honor my prayers then how may I fault Him? We live in a world that is fallen and sinful in all ways it is a shade of the real. If we find sorrow and pain in it we must draw strength knowing that our time is brief and our lives, which we value so much as to wish to preserve them at all cost (for some, even the cost of the life of another), will end no matter how much we wish to preserve them. That is the law of the earth. We are not guaranteed any set amount of life - to say we should be is extraordinarily presumptuous on the part of any man regardless of their beliefs." She answered.

"Ah, but should God reward His beloved faithful so that all might see how wonderful He is?"

"He does, but not in the way the world values. A man such as yourself, who has plenty to eat and drink and soft cushions to sit upon; who lives a life of leisure and sin and rejoices in evil - I say to you that I do not envy your lot. For you may have every earthly pleasure now, enjoy it! But you will only ever have that time of pleasure. If there is an eternity you will live forever only with the memories of what you had; and that will only serve to further torment you."

"Aye, and I suppose you and your ilk will be in Heaven laughing at us. You may suffer and toil here on earth but in Heaven you shall wear a crown!" He sneered. Bertie looked at him sadly.

"I should never laugh at you or anyone who was in pain. I can only feel sorrow for such a future. I cannot say how I should see it in Heaven - I wish I could say for certain it would give me some sorrow there as well even though you were the author of your fate, but I cannot. I can say that, while Heaven is a glorious promise in its treasures, the greatest glory it offers me is the closeness it will give me to God, my Savior. I consider myself already so privileged to simply be able to serve Him. To know that the One who made the universe and all these people and animals from the beginning of time is so very interested in each one of us, loves us so dearly, that He is willing to be an active part of our lives - it is a marvel to me! I may speak to the eternal Creator of all things and He will incline His ear to listen. And who am I? Less than a fly in the scope of Everything! When one has such a Master as that I would say merely having the honor to serve Him on earth would be enough for me to die with joy. Were God to ordain that I would still pay the full price for my sin, that of eternal torment, I should still serve Him faithfully simply for who He is. But that is not the case! He has promised that once my time of earthly service is finished I will be able to continue on with Him, my closest companion, for eternity. He bought that future for me and paid the price with His own life! The very idea of that fills me with immeasurable joy. I will not pretend that I do not feel pain, or anger, or sorrow. That I don't sometimes wish for the easier work of a common curate's daughter who visits the parishioners and makes baskets for the widows and infirmed. But who I serve, and the mere fact He deems me able to serve Him in places that would make others faint, I find such an honor that I can only be grateful. And such a joy I cannot help but spread. Heaven is a glorious and wonderful thing for it is the promise that after this time on earth has ended we will remain eternally with our Creator who loves us as His very own." The two sat in silence for a minute before Jet shifted his weight to his left arm and lift his trunk slightly to look at her.

"Well, that was a lovely sermon." Jet finally said.

"It is what I believe." she replied.

"You know, I used to believe all that stuff too." Jet said lying back down and stretching his arms above his head. He looked up at the slowly graying sky of early evening. "I truly did. My mother taught me everything about the Bible and God and all."

"What happened?" Bertie asked innocently.

"What happened is I grew up. I read the works of Darwin and the philosophers, particularly Nietzsche. I learned to see the world as it was, not as my mother saw it - a place of trial and temptation and shame and a distant God who did as He pleased to test these beings He made - but as a mere sphere inhabited by animals that are born and reproduce and die. What are we but common animals that have learned to adapt ourselves and our surroundings to suit our needs? I see no God in that; only science."

"I believe there is a good deal more to man than that. I think, for all your fine reading, you believe it too - even if you do not wish to admit it - at least some deep part of you does." Bertie ventured.

"Think what you like." Jet said. Rolling up to a sitting position he grasped his calves to stretch. Releasing he looked to his companion. "It's gaining on supper time, is it not? I imagine you must be hungry by now. Would you care to join me for supper?"

"You have been nothing if not extraordinarily familiar with me Mr. Moore." Bertie said. Standing up, Jet flashed her a winning smile and offered her his hand.

"Call it a consequence of living at your bedside for the better part of a week. I have seen the worst of you - and also you ill and unconscious (which, I believe is your best self for it is when you are actually quiet) - and cannot say that does not breed an uncommon sort of familiarity that does not easily allow for a full return to distant propriety. Come now, name the place." He instantly regretted the words even before they had fully left his tongue. Bertie's eyes brightened and a sly smile crossed her lips. "I didn't mean-"

"You said name the place." oh she was grinning from ear to ear. What had he walked into, he thought.

"I don't suppose I can talk you out of it, then?"

"No. I'm sorry, my mind is made up. It'll be good for you." She began walking down the path.

"Dear God, no!" he teasingly exclaimed, jogging a few steps to catch up.

"See, we have you praying already." She laughed.

"Now who is the irreverent one?" he raised his eyebrows.

"I firmly believe God must have a grand sense of humor. How else can you explain His plan to continually lead us to find each other?" Bertie was in fine spirits now.

"I do not believe there to be any plan in it at all." Jet answered.

"Then how do you account for it? We have met four times in two cities when it would be more likely we should not have even passed by each other once."

"It is quite simple really. You see: I enjoy watching a spectacle, and you enjoy being one." She gave him a sharp nudge in retaliation. The two walked on, through the park, towards the city.

Somehow, it was just as dreary as Jet had imagined. The huddled masses waited in long lines for a ladle of questionable soup and rough grain bread. Many of the poorer ones wore blankets as shawls, wrapped around not only themselves, but their family as well. Small fires had been set for the people to warm themselves as they ate. Salvationists stood among them in their immaculate uniforms preaching the Good News. Most of the people seemed far more interested in their soup than salvation. Bertie had left Jet to change from her dress to her uniform. He could not have felt more out of place were he a circus clown at a funeral. The woman ladling soup waved him over. She possessed large dark eyes and a mane of black curls. Her pale face showed the beginning of the soft contours and rosy cheeks of one who was well fed, yet still retained a peaky appearance indicative of a long period of malnutrition. Still, she appeared quite pretty - one of those dark Irish beauties they sometimes spoke of. She took a wooden bowl, emptied a ladle of soup within, and offered it to him.

"Some soup for you, sir?" she asked politely in that high Irish trill. Jet looked dubiously at the steaming bowl as if doubting it fit his definition of "food". Still, it was hot and he was feeling quite chilled as the sun sunk low on the horizon. He took it gratefully.

"Thank you, ma'am."

"You may call me Sarah, sir." she replied with a smile. Rather familiar, but he was not one to deny a pretty woman.

"Sarah then." He said. "Thank you." As he ate the soup the young woman watched him quizzically. He raised his eyes from the soup. "Yes?"

"Do ye truly not recognize me?" She asked. He stopped eating and looked her over carefully, taking in her every feature and examining it against the women of his memory as she poured out the soup to the next people.

"No, I honestly cannot say I can recall ever having seen you before." he replied following the thorough evaluation.

"I suppose ye wouldna. It was some time ago and faces are not really important in that line of work." This perplexed Jet, he stared at her trying to puzzle it out. "I brought my children, they're runnin' about somewhere." He stared at those eyes and suddenly the last piece fell into place. He blanched. It was the whore from the opium den! "Ah I see you've worked it out. But I'm not ashamed. If I hadna been so low I should ha' never been delivered."

"How-how..." Jet stuttered.

"After that night I made my mind up to make a better life for my children. I took Miss Bertha's advice and came to get dinner and Miss Bertha told me that it didna matter what I had done, that God still loved me as His dear child - and all I had to do was come to Him and He would be with me. I had never heard such a thing afore - the things I had done! I thought no one would ever accept me, let alone love me - that I was condemned to die a harlot's death and only be recalled by my children with shame. I used the money to pay off my debts and left that life behind. I came here and now I know there is hope." Jet felt discomfitted to the point of malaise. Finally he collected himself enough to speak.

"I suppose I am glad for you. There is one thing I've always wondered. How did Bertie know you had children?"

"Miss Bertha? Oh. Every woman who has ever carried a child bears stripes from it, over time they fade but they forever remain. Mine were dark for Liam, he's my youngest, had only been born three years ago. As I was largely unclothed she noted them." Jet had gone through a number of colors: pale to green to now a bright shade of red in a very short time. He looked about and saw Bertie coming out from a doorway just across.

"Excuse me.. Sarah. Thank you for the soup." He rushed off to Bertie's side. Never had he, in his entire life, felt a more burning sense of humiliation as though he had been made naked in front of the crowd. There he was! A gentleman! With all eyes noting him, staring, and talking to a prostitute in the open. A woman who knew him carnally, and he her! That woman, whose body had known his for a night, was standing there serving soup with her children! And then speaking to him as though it were a mere trifle! He could not reconcile it. He grabbed Bertie's arm.

"I wish to leave at once." he hissed. Bertie did not seem the least bit perturbed.

"I suppose you have met Miss O'Brian then?" she asked.

"If that is her family name then yes, I suppose I have. Why didn't you warn me!?"

"I told you it would be good for you; I never claimed it would be fun."

"Well that is certainly good for I don't think I could be having any less fun at this moment."

"Sergeant Major! Sergeant Major!" a woman voice desperately cried out. Jet and Bertie looked up to see a young woman in a worn dress running towards them. From the looks of her she had run from quite a distance yet she refused to stop until she had reached her target. In a moment she was standing in front of the Sergeant Major doubled over, panting heavily.

"What is it, Julie?" Bertie placed a hand on the girl's shoulder, her face deeply concerned.

"It...it's Jerry ma'am!... She's at the bridge... she says she's going to... to jump!" the girl answered through labored breaths. The effect of the words was electric.

"Julie: tell Jim to fetch the Doctor immediately. Have my father organize a prayer group." She turned to Jet. "I'm sorry, Jet, but I believe we will have to cut this evening short. Julie - see to it that Mr. Moore makes it to a coach safely."

"Are you joking? I'm going with you!" Jet argued.

"Jet, I have no time for this." Bertie looked at him exasperated.

"Listen, there is no way I am going to let you run into danger alone. Let me come with you! Perhaps I can be of some good." his eyes shone with determination. Bertie through her hands in the air.

"Fine! I do not have time to argue about this. Come along if you like but stay out of the way!" she ordered.

"Yes ma'am!" he stood at attention and saluted. Bertie let out a deeply frustrated sigh.

"Follow me!" she called. He did as he was told. The two ran the mile in the deepening darkness to a stone bridge that spanned the river. Standing at the center of the bridge, dressed only in torn, shabby undergarments, was a pale woman with wild black hair whipping in the wind, sobbing and screaming like a adwoman. Bertie slowly approached the woman with Jet close on her heels.

"Jerry! Jerry! It's me, it's Sergeant Major Bertha." Bertie called out. The woman's screaming ceased and she turned her tear stained small featured, overly rouged face to Bertie. Jet's mouth dropped open in astonishment - it was Miss Foxham!

"Miss Bertha..." the words from that small painted mouth were barely audible over the icy wind.

"Yes Jerry, I'm here, I'm here. Just take hold of my hand and we'll get you up." Bertie stretched out her hand to the fallen lady. Miss Foxham looked at the hand as though considering the offer, then she turned her head away. "Jerry, it's important that you take my hand. Remember, God loves you and we love you - there is nothing we can't get through together." Bertie pleaded.

"God! If He loves me so much why did He do this to me!" Miss Foxham cried out.

"I can't pretend to know the ways of God but I do know-"

"I'm pregnant!" Miss Foxham shrieked. No moment in Jet's life could have ever prepared him for the sound of those horrible screeching hysterical sobs. "I don't even know who the father is!" she screamed. It seemed there was no end to those wordless screams that followed.

"Jerry, Jerry, please hear me. This doesn't have to be the end, we can help you. We want to help you! Just take my hand." Bertie was begging now. Miss Foxham's desperate face turned to Bertie's her hand quivering towards the Salvationist. Suddenly it stopped dead. Miss Foxham's eyes narrowed, her lips puckered - she was no longer looking at Bertie's face but past it, directly at Jet.

"Haven't you helped enough?" She hissed bitterly. Jet stared at the wraith, his face white with terror.

"I didn't know! How could I have known!?" he ejaculated. Bertie looked from one to the other.

"Do you two know one another?" she asked.

"Only for the briefest moment, I swear." Jet defended himself.

"Oh but what a moment it was!" Miss Foxham shouted her scathing accusation.

"What did you do!?" Bertie cried out.

"It was nothing, only words. Miss Foxham please! Be reasonable!" He stretched out his hand to her - he could just barely feel the soft brushing of the ruffles from her dressing gown on his fingertips. "Don't do this!"

"Why should you care?" she spat the bitter words from her tiny mouth as acid. "I am nothing but a six-cent strumpet who should consider herself honored to have known the caresses of a Duke."

Her tiny foot stepped from the bridge.

"No!" Jet screamed grabbing after her, catching the fabric of her dress as it flew up and feeling it slide through his arms like water. Below him the water rose to mark the place where the fallen lady had entered. He felt Bertie grab his waste, heard her plead for him to stop, but her grasp was not strong enough to hold him.

He plunged into the icy water of the Thames. He felt his breath knocked from him, the pain stabbed at him from all sides as though it were a part of his flesh now. He wanted to scream but his mouth seemed frozen shut. Deeper he sank. He felt a limb - an arm! He grabbed at it, pulling with all his strength to the reflected lamplights that marked the water's surface. And then there was air! He gasped at it, the wonderful air. He hoisted Miss Foxham's head above the water. It rolled back lifelessly. He began pulling to the shore. The swim seemed to take no time at all yet it felt as though it had consumed his entire life - that he had lived it all only in those endless strokes to shore. Miss Foxham felt as though she weighed nothing at all as he pulled her along - it was as though he were merely dragging a large stick behind. Finally he reached the shore where the others were waiting. He drug the body of Miss Foxham onto the silt and collapsed beside it. He heard familiar voices all about him but could not seem to attend to them as they were swallowed up by the encroaching fog.

"He just jumped in after her."

"Here! Take his clothes off and get him into these blankets or he'll freeze!"

"Oh my God."

The last voice he heard before the world disappeared was Bertie's gasping softly.

"What happened to him?"


	11. Chapter 10

It was dark in the garden where Jet stood. The air felt warm and moist as after a summer rain. He swatted a fly that buzzed at his ear. All about him were great flowering bushes and trees perfuming the air. Before him a house, a lit window shone light on an elegantly carved stone balcony. Behind the curtains he could distinguish the silhouette of a slender woman moving about the room. He heard a rustling in the bushes to his right. Not wishing to be discovered in this place he at once concealed himself behind a tree. From the bushes emerged Lord Danvers! And yet his appearance was greatly altered, his nose seemed to be magnified, engulfing a fair portion of his face in its girth and the shadow it cast. Lord Danvers was careless of his surroundings, his only attentions were to that window. "Oh my fair Madeleine, my cousin! Must I surrender you to another? Yet who am I to make claim to your affections - I, who have been made to envy a pauper at times. Oh yes, I am clever and quick of wit - my mind would make thee a suitable companion - but my form is inferior in all ways. They will stare at you my Madeleine! You who are my Robin heralding the springtime that has melted the snow upon my heart! Such warmth is not right for one such as myself to hold. It is for another harbor that I must guide thy ship. For a man more properly suited to a wonder such as thou. Hark! She comes!" The curtain stirred, then divided to reveal the Madeleine of Lord Danver's soliloquy - framed by the light of the house stood Ingrid! She approached the balustrade.

"My love speak to me, for it is your voice I long to hear above all!"

"You are fairest above all others!" a third voice, one of singular familiarity, called out from nearby. Jet looked to where Danvers had only just stood alone. Now, it seemed he had been joined by another man. This other was well-formed and youthful in face with sandy blond hair and piercing blue eyes. Were Jet to prognosticate on the appearance of his brother, Avery, at that age; he was certain the result would be markedly similar. Lord Danvers crouched beside the young man so as to conceal himself from the woman.

"You are as a dove among the crows." Lord Danvers whispered to the youth.

"You are as a dove among crows!" the young man repeated.

"When you appear even the moon hides its face in shame for your glory outshines it." came the raspy whisper.

"When you appear even the moon hides its face in shame for your glory outshines it!" the youth recited obediently.

"My dear Christian!" Madeleine who was Ingrid cried out. "Speak to me more words of love."

Jet continued to observe the scene, he felt warm. No, not just warm; exceedingly hot. He loosened his collar in the sticky heat. Sweat poured down his body, drenching his clothing and pooling in his shoes. He struggle to tear off his coat, ripped at the buttons of his shirt. He fought to breathe. He tried to run towards a nearby fountain but it felt as though he were swimming through the air. And suddenly he was swimming. He was in a river. The balcony and Miss Mason were gone, a heavy stone bridge and woman bedecked in dark reds and blacks stood in their stead. Her arms were lashed to the bridge and she strained her body back and forth against them. On either side of her great flames burned. Her maniacal laughter echoed above the bridge and under it bouncing about the trellis's traveling down the river as a wave. Miss Foxham's shrewd eyes stared down on him cold and shining as ice yet burning with hate.

"It is you who murdered me Lord Moore! Upon you I lay my accusation! It is because of you my soul burns in the fire!" she howled.

"You are wrong! I did nothing more than defend my brother! I am innocent! You cannot lay the blame for your own choices upon me! It is not my fault!" he screamed, desperately trying to keep his head up in the black water. He could feel his legs kicking at branches below. It seemed there were many passing all about him. He grabbed at one to aid in his efforts. It felt odd, like two thin, parallel running sticks. He lifted it and saw, to his horror, the bones of a human arm! A skeletal hand dangled from one end. He let out a cry of shock and threw the arm from him. All around him he saw bloated corpses floating. He felt skeletal fingers tearing at his pant legs and shirt. Terrified, Jet kicked at them ferociously, beating them back with his hands and yet they continued pulling, pulling him down. He felt a sharp nailed hand grab his wrist and yank him hard. He turned to face the bloated face of Miss Foxham only inches from is own, her body floating freely on the river.

"Oh but it is your fault! Because of you my soul burns for all eternity with his!" Her other arm stabbed through the air laying a line to a shadowed man who stood on the edge of the bridge. He was tall and slender. From his body it was clear he was unperturbed by the scene.

"Who is he?"

"He is my lover. He is the Devil, himself." Jet watched as the man lit a pipe and brought the warm glow to his face. Looking down at Jet with as little concern about his predicament as if he had been a piece of driftwood, was Arthur. He took a few puffs from the pipe and smiled calmly at his struggling friend. Jet screamed.

The river bottom seemed to open beneath him. He felt it sucking him down into its depths he screamed. Miss Foxham was cackling at him. He grabbed for her. "Jet!" there, where Miss Foxham's twisted visage had been was Bertie's concerned face.

"Bertie! Help me!" he cried. Bertie's face contorted in a terrible grin.

"Why would I help you?" she cackled in Miss Foxham's voice. It was a deception! Miss Foxham laughed as she released Jet to the swirling vortex below. He clawed at the void as it took him deep into the earth.

He sat bolt upright in a strange room. The walls were covered in stripped blue paper the sparse furniture cheap and rough. He shivered in the chill of early evening. The room was empty, without candle or lit hearth. Or was it lit? It seemed the fire had suddenly ignited itself. As if by magic, he was lying down with a crowd of people around him.

"Jet? Oh praise the Lord you're awake!" Bertie was sitting next to him.

"Where am I? What happened?" Jet stuttered sleepily.

"You're..." her words continued but her voice sounded as though it were muted under water. From her dress sleeve a plump rat scurried onto the bed. Jet cried out in surprise and swatted it away. It fell from the side of the bed, only to emerge a moment later at the edge, its whiskers twitching as it examined Jet with bright, beady eyes.

"Away with you!" Jet kicked at the area where the rat was. It only moved to the side and continued to look. "I said get away!" Jet swatted at it again. It seemed to duck his hand. It crawled up into the bed. "Get away!" Jet struggled to throw it but it crawled right into his lap and onto his stomach. "Get off me! Get off!" Jet tossed in the bed and shook the blankets to get it off, yet it remained.

"Jet! What's wrong?" a faraway voice asked.

"It's a rat! There's a rat in the bed!" The blanket was torn from the bed by an unseen force.

"Jet, there's no rat in the bed." the voice said. Jet stared at the creature on his chest which stared back, nose twitching.

"It's right on me! Get it off me!" He flailed his arms try to tear it from him. Then he felt those small claws, that slight weight on his leg. He looked down to see another rat was crawling up him. And another on his hand. He began thrashing about, tearing at the rats covering him, crawling all over his body. "Rats! Rats everywhere! Help me!"

"Hold him down!" a man's voice ordered. He felt the hard grip of hands pressing him to the bed. This would not do at all! Were they holding him down to be devoured? What sort of monstrous place was this? He thrust his body forward with all his might. He felt their hold on him break. He saw the window and ran for it intending to escape this torture chamber through it. "Grab him!" Jet was in mid-leap when his legs caught. His chin hit the floor hard.

"Jim! Don't kill him." a woman cried out.

"He has a better chance of doing that all on his own." a male voice murmured in reply. Jet felt rough, strong hands dragging him back to the bed. He looked towards his destination and saw a large, writhing pile of shiny-eyed black rats. He shouted and struggled against those hands in vain for they forced him on top of the living mass. He could feel it moving under him! Noses and whiskers and claws and writhing furry bodies. He tried to scream but his mouth was full of foamy liquid. He felt it trickle down the side of his jaw.

"He's having a fit! Doctor! Help him!"

"Hold him steady!" Jet felt something slightly moist cover his mouth and nose. He tried to scream but the air was strange. The room melted away around him.

He felt far away. He was looking down on the earth from above. He could see all of England below him. There was his house and Elizabeth strolling along the garden path with Arthur. And there was Ingrid playing with little Freddy by the pond while Lord Danvers surveyed them proudly, at a distance.

"Arthur!" He called out from his perch above. "Elizabeth!" The two did not seem to hear him. He called out louder "Arthur! Elizabeth!" Still they walked on. "Miss Mason!" he hollered to the lady at the lake. But she, to, failed to acknowledge him. He looked around himself. There was only the black of the night sky sprinkled with bright stars which faded into the bright daylight sky of England before reaching his dear ones. At his feet the pale faded yellow surface of the moon. "This is impossible! Arthur! Elizabeth! Ingrid!" he called their names repeatedly, desperately. He fell to the ground sobbing. "Somebody..." he whimpered as a lost child might, "please hear me."

"I hear you." a strange voice replied. Jet looked to the house. Standing at the window was a long faced, auburn haired woman with somewhat severe yet languid features. It was Philomena! "I hear you. Are you lonely?"

"Philomena! How do I get home from here?"

"You can't get home, at least not that way." Philomena laughed.

"What way then?"

"Somebody must care enough for you to come to you." She supplied. Jet gestured to the Earth.

"But they cannot hear me!" Jet was exasperated.

"Oh they can, they just choose not to. If they were to acknowledge your plight they would then have to do something. And they do not wish to admit that you are in trouble."

"I am in no more trouble then they!" Jet protested. "Arthur and I are the same in practically all ways and habits! And certainly my sister and Miss Mason would not leave me in distress."

"On their own, perhaps not. But they are not alone, they are tethered to the earth by their companions, only you are all alone."

"But what about you, Philomena! You can hear me, why don't you help me?"

"Oh, it's simple." She answered plainly. "I just can't bring myself to leave the baby. And it would be far too dangerous to bring a baby along on such a mission. But I can talk to you, if you like, for a while - until he needs me."

"Just go, then! Half a companion is almost worse than none at all." Jet sat back down, dejected.

"Good night then." His sister waved. Jet ignored her, preferring to draw small pictures in the dust. He sat alone for some time shifting the dust around. Finally he stood, stretched, and placed his hands of his waist. Jet surveyed the void about him. He walked the surface for a time. There were no trees, no plants, no structures of any sort to occupy himself with. He resisted the urge to look down upon the people capering on the planet below who cared not a whit for his absence. It was a miserable state his mind was in: to have it openly acknowledged that those he counted most dear would not rush to his aide when he found himself most in need; preferring, instead, to pretend no need existed. And he was guilty as the rest if not more so. He had so blatantly disregarded the troubles of those around him, ignored and minimized them so as not to have to face them. He had justified his lack of action so many times; he should not wonder to see it turned on him. Yet, he hated them for it, Arthur most of all, and his anger burned more for his own guilt. He kicked at the dust. "Thou subtle, perjur'd, false, disloyal man!" he cursed. He folded himself down to the dirt, his elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging freely between. A wind gust passed across the moon throwing dust about. He felt it sweep against his face, fine and course as the lace from his mother's dress he used to press his face against when he was small and the tempest threw its full force against the house rattling the windows and doors.

"Are you ready to come home?" a voice from behind him asked. He tilted his head back to look. Above him, staring upside down, was Bertha's plump face. He twisted to get himself up.

"It would be you, wouldn't it? Of all people in the world it is always you." he quipped with a sigh. She ignored him.

"The pony's ready, we can leave whenever you wish." she indicated behind him. Turning he saw the fluffy white pony from the estate. He couldn't help but crack a smile.

"I fear between the two of us we might be the end of him."

"Nonsense! He's stronger than he looks. Climb on back and we'll go for a ride." she answered adjusting the saddle.

"My lady." Jet made an exaggerated gesture towards the saddle. Bertie hopped up and situated herself sidesaddle.

"Are you coming?" she asked. Jet hesitated.

"Wouldn't that um... be somewhat crude?" he asked turning lightly red at the thought.

"It will be fine. It is the only way to get you home. Come now, hop on." Jet considered the situation for another moment. "Unless you plan on staying here for the remainder of you days." she slyly smiled.

"Fine!" he finally surrendered lacking any better option. He mounted the flank of the horse behind the saddle, careful not to get to close.

"You may need to hold on to me." Bertie advised.

"Don't worry, I'm quite stable."

"Suit yourself." Bertie answered. She hit the reins and the white pony took off with a jolt. Jet grabbed Bertie's shoulders instinctively. Even without seeing her face he knew there was a knowing smile upon it.

"Don't you say anything." he warned.

"About what?" she answered innocently. "Come on pony!" she hit the reins again. The pony ran faster and faster across the surface of the planet. "Hold on!" Bertie called back. Jet tightened his grip on her shoulders. "Let's go!" The pony leapt into the air. Jet felt himself jolted backward. He wrapped his arms tightly around Bertie's shoulders as the little pony broke from the surface of the planet into the dark night sky leaping and bounding on the dark field before him. Bertie was as steadfast as a rock, guiding the pony this way and that between the stars and planets, racing with a comet and hopping on an asteroid. Jet found, after the initial shock, he was quite enjoying himself.

"Do we have to go home just yet?" he asked.

"Soon, but what do you have in mind?"

"If it's not too much trouble can we see the rings of Saturn?"

"I think we can manage that." she turned the pony towards the bright yellow dot. The little pony easily covered the distance and soon they were sliding along the rings in large circles around the planet.

"This is remarkable!" Jet shouted. Bertie took out a large gold pocket watch and looked at it.

"We're going to be late if we don't head back now."

"Late? Late for what?" Jet asked but Bertie did not answer, only urged the pony on. They broke from the night into the morning sky. It was so bright Jet found himself momentarily blinded. His hands groped forward - he felt another hand and wrapped his own around it.

"Ah, so you've decided to come back to the world of the living." he heard a familiar man's voice say. It took him a moment to realize he was no longer riding a horse, likely he had never been, but was lying in a bed. He put his free hand to his forehead, rubbing it though the action did little to quell the dull aching within.

"Is he really back this time?" asked a woman - the voice he knew as Bertie's instantly.

"Yes, I believe so." the man answered. Jet blinked his eyes open. The sun streaming onto his bed from the window seemed less painful now than a moment before but still it stung. He covered his eyes with his arm.

"Well he'd better be this time - I'll not be dragging him back from the window again. Or the fireplace." Jim Reed stated.

"Now Jim, don't start." a woman Jet knew to be Bertie's Aunt scolded.

"And why shouldn't I? It's only because she fancies him that we're stuck mollycoddling him." he pointed his words directly at Bertie. "He has more than enough money to have servants watch over him."

"Jim Reed!" the woman was scandalized. "We would help any man rich or poor. Regardless of personal favor or debt."

"Well it's true! I never was one to avoid the plain truth when it should be spoken-"

"You do realize I can hear you." Jet interrupted. The hand tightened around his own.

"I've had enough of this! I'm going out." the sound of heavy footsteps and the slam of the door announced Jim Reed's departure.

Jet slid his arm back to reveal a ring of faces encircling him. He sought out Bertie's which was pink with embarrassment from Jim Reed's accusation. He gave her a weak half smile causing her to redden to an even darker hue. The hand tightened.

"How are you feeling?" Dr. Lang asked.

"In a word, dreadful."

"I would imagine." the doctor replied.

"What happened?" Jet groaned.

"Your body could not stand the shock of the cold water or the strain of the swim - your heart nearly failed. We brought you here to convalesce but you failed to regain consciousness until the third day when the Delerium Tremens began. Since then I have had to keep you sedated for your own safety." Jet recalled Jim Reed's words. He looked at Bertie.

"Really, the fireplace?" he asked. She nodded.

"Twice."

"I don't recall it at all."

"That is likely for the best."

"Not my proudest moments, then?"

"No." Bertie shook her head.

"Is Miss Foxham all right?" Bertie looked at him sadly as she took his hand in both of hers. She looked to the doctor.

"I regret to inform you that Miss Foxham did not make it." Dr. Lang's somber tones ripped through Jet like an electric shock. "There was nothing you could have done, I'm afraid. She made no attempt to preserve her life." Jet looked at Bertie desperately.

"It's not my fault. There was nothing I could have done. It's not my fault." Bertie looked to those surrounding Jet.

"If you would please leave us?" she requested of the party. Each member shuffled out quietly.

"Do you wish for me to remain Miss Smith?" Dr. Lang asked.

"Not for the moment. Thank you." she nodded.

"I will be in the hall should you require assistance."

"We are most grateful for all you've done for us Dr. Lang. I will call you if the need arises." Dr. Lang looked to Jet and then to Bertie.

"Don't be too hard on him." He silently shut the door.

"How long have I been insensate?" Jet asked after Dr. Lang's departure.

"Nine days." Bertie answered.

"Nine! Nine days?" Jet was stunned. "I need to contact my family! They must be worried." He made to throw off his blanket when Bertie stopped him, her face sad. "What is it?"

"There is no need to worry, we have already contacted your parents."

"Are they here? Or at the hotel?" Jet asked anxiously.

"I'm afraid they were unable to make the journey to town. But they asked that I keep them advised of any significant change in your condition." Jet was deflated. "I'm sorry." Bertie attempted. Jet stared at the blanket, downcast. He shook his head.

"He couldn't even be bothered to come." he muttered. "I suppose I should have expected as much. Did you tell them what happened?"

"Only that there had been an accident. We had to maintain to all that Jerry did not... We wished to give her a proper burial - she deserves at least that much."

"Couldn't her family have done as much regardless?"

"Jerry has- had no family to speak of."

"What do you mean?"

"Jerry, Miss Foxham as you know her, lost both her parents. It seems her father invested the majority of their fortune on a ship bound from Africa that was wrecked in a storm off the coast. Finding himself on the cusp of bankruptcy he opted to attempt to regain his losses through games of chance. He was cheated out of not only their remaining fortune but also their property. Jerry and her mother were made aware of this situation by a note he left in the study of their estate when he took his life. It was Jerry's mother who found her husband - a blow to her constitution she was unable to recover from. For a month Jerry tended to her before she followed her husband to the grave. Her friends disavowed her. Destitute, Jerry was sent to live with her Uncle, once removed. From what she told me he was initially agreeable but when she rejected his lecherous advances he became hard and cruel. He used a horsewhip on her for punishment and every move she made was offense enough to warrant its use. Finally, he sold her to a man who owned a brothel to cure her of her "uppity ways", he told her. The man forced her into service, beating and starving her when she did not behave. Two months ago Sarah brought her to us - she was more bones than skin and deeply bruised. We've been working to help her get away from that life since. She was a good soul. She was doing so well! Everyone was fond of her. She always tried to be so strong, she couldn't stand to show weakness. I suppose it was just too much to bear on her own and it broke her. But we wanted to help her so very much, we would have found her a home with the baby. She had so much potential. Its all gone now. All of it." Bertie sat silently for a moment, collecting herself. "She recognized you on the bridge. You knew her?"

"Only for the briefest of moments, but yes."

"She said something about a Duke - did she mean your friend, Arthur? What happened?" These were the questions Jet wished most to never answer. If only Miss. Foxham had lived she might have been able to explain and Bertie should have despised him without his own implication to damn him. He let out a heavy sigh.

"Miss Foxham and Arthur were involved in an affair. I cannot guess to the length of it, only that it had ended by the summer season. He did not do anything criminal to persuade, nor did he use any force; her but I cannot say that he was in any way honorable in his behavior. I was introduced to her at a Ball where she attempted to enlist my aide in exposing him. I- the things I said to her, no gentleman should say." He rubbed his forehead with his hand in an attempt to erase the memory.

"Then what she said..."

"Was an accurate recitation of my castigation." Bertie withdrew her hands from his and looked pensively at the window.

"Bertie, you have to know I never meant... How could I have known! They were only words! It's not my fault." He grabbed for those warm, comforting hands but Bertie denied him, jumping from the chair and backing away as if those arms seeking her were vipers.

"The blame is not solely yours - there is plenty enough of that to go around. But that does not, in any way, absolve you of your part. Words may be intangible things to the flesh but to the mind and heart they may be as real a balm or dagger as any made by man. I cannot even imagine how countless the times those words must have wounded her, plunging their poison into her. How they must've lived as her constant companion through those times - always and forever reminding her. The last words she ever said were yours. Her last thoughts of her disgrace."

"Bertie, please! Forgive me."

"I cannot forgive you. Only God can forgive sins." she backed toward the door. "I need to get some air."

"Will you return?" Jet asked.

"I- I don't know." she turned he knob. "Doctor, could you please watch over him?"

"Yes Miss Smith." Dr. Lang replied switching places with her at the door.

Jet sat in the bed looking downcast as Dr. Lang took his seat at Jet's bedside.

"I suppose she must hate me now." he mumbled. The doctor removed a stethoscope from the black bag that occupied the bedside table.

"Breath deeply." he requested, placing the instrument on Jet's chest and back, listening closely. "No, I don't believe she could ever hate you. She cares for you very much; almost as much as you do for her." He raised Jet's arms to examine them.

"I don't care for her! I can barely tolerate her as it is." Jet protested.

"I have one question for you then: if you did not care for her than why would it matter how she regarded you?"

"I suppose I would prefer not to be hated by anyone."

"Well, you have one commonality - you are both terrible liars." Jet made to contradict this statement but the doctor stopped him. "She has known whatever answer you would give would be difficult for her to hear. There is no easy way to phrase it: she watched as a woman she cared for took her life upon seeing you. She did not know what to expect but the worst. Still, she has sat here every day, at your side, praying for your recovery. Just as I saw you keep vigil over her some months ago. She will return, when she's had some time. As for you: your heart is still far too weak for travel. Mr. Moore, far be it from me to levy judgement on another man, but you must avoid laudanum, opium, and alcohol from this point forward if you wish to preserve your life. The damage on your body has been far too great."

"And if I don't wish to preserve my wretched life?" The doctor gave him a knowing look. "It is really as bad as all that then?"

"I'm afraid so." the pair were silent for some time as Dr. Lang packed his bag. "You'll have to remain in bed for a few more days." Jet made to speak but the doctor, as if reading his mind, anticipated the question with his answer. "There is no need, to worry. The Reed family is willing to keep you here as long as you wish to stay."

"I cannot imagine Jim Reed is in accord with this." Jet replied recalling the previous argument.

"I will not pretend he was an enthusiastic supporter of the idea but he is a better man than I think you give him credit for."

"I suppose I shall have ample time to become acquainted with his virtues." Jet said turning over to face the opposite wall. "Thank you, Dr. Lang. I believe I will rest now, if you don't mind."

"Goodnight, Mr. Moore." Jet heard as the door quietly shut.


	12. Chapter 11

His mind awoke before he was willing to open his eyes. He lay breathing in the dusty smell of the straw filled mattress going over the events of yesterday and the day ten days prior that had led him to this place. Though he had slept soundly, the very memory of it all left him feeling exhausted. He heard the door creak open.

"Bertie?" he groaned turning over with a stretch.

"No." Jim Reed answered. "She's out in the square helping with the dinner." his heavy footsteps thudded across to the bedside table where the dull sound of wood on wood gave Jet to know Jim had placed some form of food. "Mum sent me up with some soup for you." Jet looked at the thin stew beside him - some sort of meat, undistinguishable from a long turn in the boiling pot, and potatoes - he tried to appear grateful but Jim caught his vague look of disgust. "I know it's not as fine as what you're used to but you'll have to make do for now. It's good enough for the rest of us."

"No, tell your mother I am thankful for her hospitality."

"Right." Jim Reed replied tersely. He turned to leave but seemed to think better of it, seating himself heavily in the chair instead. This was precisely the last development Jet wanted to occur. He had no desire to spend any more time with this man than he had to despite any recommendations of good character Dr. Lang had made. In Jet's experience a jealous suitor always made for a poor companion; particularly one of no rank who did not know his proper place in the order of things. This promised to be excruciating. Jim Reed indicated to the soup, "Well, eat before it gets cold."

"Yes, thank you." Jet took the wooden bowl in hand and began to eat. The soup was as unpleasant in taste as in appearance - not so bad that it was inedible, but somewhat worse than had he just been served boiled water alone. Jim Reed watched Jet closely as he slowly consumed the flavorless concoction.

"Why do you persist in seeking out my cousin? She has more than enough worries without adding you onto the load." And there it was. Jet was indignant at the accusation.

"Pardon me, but I have never once sought out your cousin. By my own intent I have never made any efforts to obtain her company. Any contact we have had has been the result of mere happenstance and nothing more. If she chooses to retain my companionship for any length of time I neither see any reason that I should discourage her nor do I see how it is any of your concern that you should raise an objection to it."

"It is causing people to talk, they wonder what your intentions with her are."

"Then I say that it is for her Father to raise an objection and, once again, no concern of yours."

"He has voiced his concerns."

"And yet he has not interceded to put a halt to our association. If he has seen fit to let it bide then you can have no reason to pursue your objection."

"Her Father lets it bide because he trusts his daughter to maintain her virtue and he believes it to be a mere passing fancy on your part. Once she ceases to amuse you then you will go about your way." Jim Reed retorted.

"And you do not believe the same?"

"Oh no, I do."

"Then why not just wait me out? If I am as mercurial as you suppose than it should not be too long."

"Because she is a good woman and not just a rich man's plaything! I cannot bear to watch her be used in this way!"

"Ah, and now we get to the meat of the thing!" Jet proclaimed. "You suppose because you stand by her with your ardent love that it somehow gives you a right to speak on her behalf. I say to you, you are not worried that I might leave her humiliated with dashed hopes but that I might influence her to remain in my company and thus abandon yours. And even more: you fear that the thing you have most coveted - her love - may become mine. And worse, that I don't care enough about her to appreciate it." Jim Reed looked at him, furious - perhaps he had said too much; he was in no condition to fend off the young Scot. Instead Jim Reed put his face in his hands for a moment drawing the fingers down from it. When he looked back at Jet he seemed to have calmed considerably.

"I take it we understand each other, then?" Jim spoke, offering the other man a hand. Jet laughed in spite of himself.

"Yes, I believe we do." he said taking the stocky man's hand.

"Doctor Lang has given his permission for you to travel to the hotel as early as tomorrow, if you wish." Jet had not considered how soon he might be able to leave. For a moment he was elated at the prospect of being in a warm hotel apartment with fine food and drink at his beck and call. Certainly, it would suit his needs for recovery. He could wake tomorrow morning as though this had all been a terrible dream now fading in the light of a new dawn.

"If it is all the same to you and no imposition, might I continue to remain here for a time? I have no pressing engagements and - if I am honest - I just do not want to go back right now." Jim Reed's eyebrows rose well above his glass frames in surprise.

"I would have thought you would want to be amongst your own kind." Jet breathed deeply.

"It is reasonable to suppose so, but I do not wish to just yet - I have my reasons - so if you would be willing to take me on?"

"I'll see if we have any spare clothes that'll fit you. I'm sorry to say your fancy ones were ruined in the river."

"It's just as well. I didn't much care for the stares they brought upon me." Jim laughed at the memory.

"You could not have stood out more were you an orange among chestnuts! Not to worry, by tomorrow you'll blend in so well even my Mum won't know you from Adam."

Jim Reed was true to his word. Two days following Jet found himself sliding a worn pair of suspenders over his thin shoulders. Bertie had not visited him the previous evening nor that morning. He looked in small mirror on the wall - he was more gaunt than usual, his complexion irregular, his hair fell across his forehead with little order - he imagined Bertie would have quite a bit to say regarding his transformation, provided she ever spoke to him with the candor she once had again.

"Well now! No one would ever guess you were the same well-dressed sod who came to us almost a fortnight past." Jim exclaimed as he entered the room. He stopped and examined his handiwork. "I suppose the trousers are a bit short, can't be helped - you're more limb than body. Any how, enough chatter, Mum has breakfast on the table and it won't keep." Jet followed Jim down the stairs into the main room which served as both kitchen and dining area. Based on his prior experience with the thin stews and watery gruels he had been served during his convalescence he was not eager to feign his fondness for them as the family audience would require from him. From the stairwell he scented some heartier items the smell of which caused his mouth to water. Each plate was set on the worn wooden table fully laden with baked beans, sausage, an egg, a small hank of bacon, and plump potato scones - small wooden bowls of porridge completed the scene. After days of nothing but weak soup and gruel Jet found himself nearly moved to tears by the sight.

"Well, come on now - if you're well enough to walk you're well enough to eat a proper breakfast." the cheery woman who was Mrs. Reed chirped. "We can't have you wasting away while you are in our care." Mr. Reed - a burly, dark Scot pulled out the chair at his right and motioned for Jet to sit. Marking Jet's astonished look Jim leaned over to his companion.

"You didn't expect that we lived off gruel and weak soup? Dr. Lang's orders you know." he said with a wink.

"I will have to remember to thank the good doctor when next we meet." Jet whispered back. "Thank you for your hospitality Mrs. Reed, Mr. Reed." he said, taking his seat. Unconsciously, he counted the plates - five. Jim caught him.

"Bertha never takes meals with the family. She goes out early to help prepare meals at the Women's House with Miss O'Brien."

"The Women's House?" Jet inquired.

"Aye, that is where women who have no means to support themselves or need to flee from terrible situations can come to find respite. We have two houses - one for women with children and one for women without. Bertha spends most of her days with them." Mr. Reed answered.

"What could she possibly have to do with them?"

"She believes they can become something much more than they have been degraded to through the transforming grace of God." a raspy voice answered. The dull thud of a cane followed by the shuffling of feet announced the entrance of Rev. Smith. "So she helps them learn the skills to secure employment and she teaches them of the redemptive power of God in their lives." Jet was surprised - were there really people who would consider hiring such women for honest work? Rev. Smith gripped his seat back heavily, lowering himself gingerly into the chair behind the final empty trencher. "Let us pray..." he began - the others bowed their heads in quiet reverence - Jet sat through the eloquent prayer as though it were an especially dull lecture; unable to move about freely without risking offence he amused himself by focusing and unfocusing his eyes on the meal before him. Finally the "Amen" sounded. Jet attacked the food with gusto. He assumed it must have been delicious though he could not recall any specific flavor for the speed at which he had consumed the items caused them to blend together in his mind. "I am glad to see you up and about Mr. Moore." Rev. Smith finally spoke. "Jim has told me you intend to remain with us for some time?"

"Yes sir, if you'll have me."

"Of course. We would not turn a prodigal away." Jet took umbridge at this characterization of his state, but there was no sense in causing a scene over what the old blackcoat chose to see him as if it aided his own ends. "Particularly not now when we need all the hands we can muster. The Russian flu has rendered many of our most dedicated soldiers unable to serve. That is to say nothing of what it has done to those whom we serve! The warm winter, rather than aiding in recovery has only served to speed its spread to epidemic proportions." he looked down at his plate mournfully. "I have presided over far too many funerals this season - baptized far too many babies who I then had to turn a spade of dirt upon." 'All the work of a kind and loving God.' Jet thought caustically, but he managed to hold his tongue. The meal passed in uncomfortable silence. Finally Mr. Reed spoke:

"George, what would you have us do for today? Especially with the boy?" Mr. Reed indicated to Jet.

"Ah yes. Your missions for the day." Rev. Smith brightened a bit at the prospect. "Robert, I would ask you to assist in fixing the roof Mr. Cartwright's house. I have been over to see the damage and it is rather extensive. Still, it should not require more than a day or two of your time before we can begin to have meetings there again. As for the youths: I would ask Jim take Mr. Moore under his wing for the time being until he becomes accustomed to our ways. Is this acceptable to you, Jim?" the elder man asked.

"Aye, but he will have to keep up."

"Are you up to the task, Mr. Moore?" Rev. Smith seemed to be challenging Jet, and likely he was.

"I believe so, Rev. Smith."

"Then the two of you will be in charge of distributing the food from the storehouse." He looked at the pair pointedly. "Remember, these are not social calls - so do not tarry too long in one place. And Jim, keep an eye on Mr. Moore. A little work is good for the soul but I do not wish to undo all we have done these past two weeks. If he starts to flag, send him home."

"Aye sir." Jim nodded in agreement.

Jim led the way to the cellar that served as a storehouse for the Army. It was located below an old brick tenement held tenuously together by crumbling cement and housing eight families in all. The worn door was painted a pale blue which had grayed substantially over the years. When Jim undid the heavy metal lock, Jet half anticipated a cascade of cobwebs upon entry. He was pleasantly surprised to find the place was neatly swept with the dirt floor properly spread with sand. Makeshift plywood shelves were lined up in rows along the floor creating aisles. On these shelves were large sacks of foodstuffs. Near the back of the cellar Jet observed a number of cured meats hanging from the ceiling.

"Most of this food we buy from monetary donations, but occasionally we get a special donation. Those hams in the back were a special gift from the butcher for Christmas. I wish we could have served them then, but they'll go further in the soup. Don't worry, everything's already been sorted. We just need to take it over. Here." Jim hefted a bag of flour and passing it to his cohort. Jet staggered at the sudden weight, he smiled as he tried to situate it on his shoulder as Jim was doing with a sack of potatoes.

"How much does this weigh?" Jet asked through gritted teeth.

"About 50 lbs give or take. Sorry, I didn't want to overload you on your first day." Jet shot him a scowl, but Jim seemed to be oblivious to it grabbing another sack of potatoes and slinging it over his other shoulder. "Here grab me those onions if you could, Mr. Moore. Ugh, that is far too formal for my tastes - is there another name I can call you."

"Lord Moore would do the job nicely." Jet grinned vengefully as he plopped a small sack of onions on top of one of Jim's potatoes.

"Oh ha ha. I doubt you would want to be called that around these parts - they'll more likely take you for a nutter than a Lord, looking like that, but were they to believe you then you would truly be at risk. While most of our people are good, honest folk; there are those in these parts who would not be able to resist the temptation of easy wealth from a kidnapping."

"Then Chester."

"Alright, Chester. Our first delivery is to the house of Mrs. Fenwick. She prepares most of the soups for us with the help of some of the ladies from the women's house. What is it?" Jim had caught a momentary grimace from Jet.

"I'm sorry, it's just hard for me to hear women of their... experience, called "ladies"." Jet answered disdainfully.

"As far as we're concerned they are ladies to the good Lord and so they are ladies to us. If we don't believe they are worthy of such a station than how may they ever feel they can attain it."

"Well they can't. They will never be ladies and most will never even be able to aspire to the rank of a scullery maid. What house would ever take a fallen woman?" Jim wheeled on him. Unused to the momentum from the weight he was carrying, Jet almost crashed into the man.

"Now you listen to me "Lord Moore" or whatever you wish to be called. I have met you in the dens with the very women you deride in a state of debauchery any man should be ashamed to exhibit. In what world do you believe that you are any better than they? Because you bribed them into sin? Well, if that is the stick by which we use to measure than what about you? You paid for it! At least their sin was out of need and desperation - yours out of licentiousness and boredom."

"They made their choices."

"Aye, some did. But what decision is it between degradation and starvation? These women have made the choice to devote their lives to Christ and thus they are a new creation - the old is washed away completely. Any sin they committed before, in their previous lives, is of no consequence to us now. It no longer exists to be held against them." Jet made to speak but was interrupted before a syllable could exit his mouth. "Regardless of how you may feel you will treat all the women we work with and serve with the utmost respect. This is not up for discussion." Jim turned his back on the other man. Jet dropped the sack of flour with a heavy thud.

"Fine then." Jim did not even turn to acknowledge Jet's act of defiance.

"If you aren't going to work than go home." Jim answered continuing to walk on. It seemed as though Jet were set for humiliation no matter which way he chose. To pick up his bag and follow Jim would require a tacit admission that he had behaved abominably - his actions more like a spoiled child than a gentleman. But to return to the house so early seemed a fate even worse - a lie could only save his reputation until evening when Jim returned and revealed all. He could leave, take a coach to the hotel and be done with this nonsense, but the idea of his disgraceful actions being discussed without him present to give account galled him. He exhaled a frustrated sigh, picked up the sack, and followed Jim.

The morning passed quickly as Jet and Jim distributed sacks from the storehouse to the various dwellings which served the Army's mission. Finally, they arrived at the Women's House. It was a large old house, from the outside Jet guessed it once had as many as four bedrooms with a possible fifth in the attic. Ms. O'Brien met the men at the dutch door in the rear.

"Thank you, Jim." She said. She glanced over at Jet with a pleasant smile, he felt the heat rising from his neck. "Here, let me get the latch for you."

"Thank you, Sarah. Is Bertha in?" Jim inquired.

"Jim is that you?" Bertie's voice echoed from the back of the kitchen.

"Yes, ma'am!" Jim hollered in reply.

"Oh good, how is the patient?" Bertie asked, her voice approaching the door.

"He's up and about now."

"Ah, then I suppose he'll be making his way back to the hotel?" Bertie arrived at the door, wiping her floured hands off on her apron. She smiled brightly at her cousin.

"Well, I can't say for sure - I suppose you had best ask him yourself." Jim cocked his head in Jet's direction. Bertie followed his line and jumped slightly from shock.

"I intend to stay until I have fully recovered." Jet proclaimed with a winning grin. Bertie, somewhat discomfited by the tall man's sudden appearance, suddenly seemed very preoccupied in wiping her hands on her apron though her gaze was glued to Jet.

"We will be glad of your assistance." she muttered quickly. "It's good to see you are well. Thankyou." She dipped her head slightly as a bow, grabbed a small packet of ham from off the top of a large sack of potatoes Jim carried, and rushed back into the house as quickly as if she had witnessed a ghost appear.

"That went well." Jim smirked, taking Jet's sack from him.

"All in good time." Jet replied confidently. Though confidence was far from what he felt - that encounter could scarcely have gone worse. An insult, a flare of anger, a few tender words would have revealed the heart of the woman; rather he could not read her reaction at all excepting that she was put at ill ease by his presence. Still, she had shown some concern for him... but that could just have easily been her polite way of inquiring after whether or not he had gone. He wondered why he should even care at all? Was she so much an intimate to him that he should consider the loss of her friendship as something undesirable? He could feel his heart racing as though his nerves had been deeply shaken from the encounter. Or was it his nerves at all? The pounding seemed to increase as though his heart were intent on exiting his chest. Jim Reed exited the building, he absently wiped his spectacles as he approached Jet. Holding them to the sun, Jim inspected the glass, finding clean to his satisfaction he replaced them on his head.

"There is far too much flour in the air in that kitchen. Chester? Are you alright?"

"How do you mean?"

"You're white as a sheet." Jet had not even a chance to speak before Jim placed a hand on his forehead. From his expression Jet guessed he had not gotten the results he hoped for. Jim took both of Jet's wrists in his hands, turned them over, and placed his thumbs firmly in the center. The dark haired man frowned.

"What is it?" Jet asked, he could feel the cold fingers of panic on the back of his mind. The world around him seemed to lose its sense of focus - as though what was immediately at hand was also somehow only existing in the most peripheral part of his awareness.

"We need to get you home. You've over-exerted yourself." From the tone of Jim's voice Jet could gather that the trouble was far more serious than what was being said. He made to turn towards home but somehow, in that act, he seemed to lose proper contact with the ground. Jim caught him mid fall. "Come on now, I'll help you." Jim wrapped Jet's arm around his shoulders and began walking slowly towards the Reed house with Jet staggering along beside, feeling quite the fool for the show he was providing. They made a slow go of it but eventually Jim was able to half drag half carry Jet up the stairs an to his temporary sleeping quarters. "I'll get you some tea, but you need to rest for now. I won't be offended if you drop off before I return." Jet managed a weak smile in thanks. He recollected no more beyond the sound of the door latch falling into place.

He didn't wake until some hours later when the fading sun shone golden around the border of the window. He stretched his arms above his head. He only just barely registered a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. For some time he lay listlessly contemplating what the root of his present discomfort was - whether he was truly ill or something far less serious. His stomach seemed to decide to help him discern the answer by letting out a loud rumble. He was hungry, likely famished, having eaten nothing since that morning. Even so, he continued to lie in bed; weighing whether it was worth his effort to go in search of food or if he should go back to sleep until the morn. He attempted the latter but found slumber evaded him, still, he could not persuade himself to the former - to haul his heavy carcass out of bed seemed far too great an exertion. He heard the latch click ever so softly. The door hinge creaked its objection to the door being opened. Jet waited, listening to the soft tread of lightly clad feet across the floor. He turned toward the visitor. "Oh, pardon me, I didn't mean to wake you." Bertie stammered, her plump face marked her surprise. "I just thought you might like a book to read." She pushed an old novel forward with both hands.

"It's alright, I was awake already." He took the book in one hand and examined it. "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Acton Bell. I can't say I've ever heard of it."

"It hasn't been in print for ages, it belonged to my father who gifted it to me when I turned sixteen. I can't say I know much of its history or author beyond that but I have found it to be a very good book."

"I'm surprised you didn't bring me a Bible." Jet smiled.

"If I had, it would sit on the dresser untouched while you wiled away the hours watching the sun traverse the wall. Also, there is already a copy in the dresser - the top drawer, if you are interested."

"You know me well." Bertie turned to leave. "If it wouldn't be any trouble, would it be possible to have some food brought up? I haven't had a morsel since breakfast."

"Oh yes, I am sorry. I'll return momentarily." and with that Bertie hurried from the room.

"And it had better not be soup!" Jet called after her. He could not but wonder at her strangeness of behavior - she had made the effort to bring him the book yet she seemed to desire nothing more that to be out of his company - this vexed him a good deal. He looked at the book and, having satisfied himself of its unfamiliarity, placed it on the bedside table. She was true to her word, returning with a plate of sliced beef and cut potatoes piled on a fat slice of bread.

"Thank you." Jet said, receiving the plate. He placed it gingerly on his lap.

"If that is all; I will be going." Bertie made to leave but Jet caught her arm.

"No, please." she started at his touch - that little shudder, like a baby bird - his eyes dropped with his hand. She stood looking at him warily. "Please," his blue eyes sought hers, "Please stay with me, if only for a short while. To pass the time." Bertie seemed to consider his request, finally she placed her hand on the crest of the little wooden chair that sat as the stalwart companion to the bed.

"For a while, just to pass the time." she repeated, taking a seat.

The days passed in much the same way. After he had spent another full day in bed, Dr. Lang returned to follow up on his patient. After scolding Jet for being far more ambitious than his body could support, Dr. Lang pronounced that he would be able to perform light work for half day periods. Jet was sent to the main kitchen to peel potatoes for the first week before finally being cleared to partner with Jim Reed. He rarely saw Bertie for more than a few moments excepting during Sunday meetings and Rallies - and even then only from a distance. Yet as he watched her he could not help but conclude she was a remarkable woman. He could not believe how very busy she was! She was always flitting from one task to another from the first hours of the morning to the last of the night and even beyond that. When Sarah O'Brian's infant son, Liam, took ill with the Russian Flu; her two elder children temporarily moved to the Reed house. One night, suffering from an acute case of insomnia, Jet crept down the stairs in search of a morsel of food and found Bertie sound asleep in the sitting chair, a child slumbering peacefully in either arm. Early in the week she would take a small contingent of Salvationists with her to the businesses of ill-repute in order to reach out to the lost, as she called them. Rarely did she find success in this task - but every so often Jet would see a new woman or man warily wander into the square and, upon recognizing the Sergeant Major, would approach her slowly as a badly beaten dog might a human holding out a gentle hand, and she would take them in a warm embrace regardless of their appearance or filth and guide them over to her comrades. In those moments it was impossible for Jet not to be reminded of Mrs. O'Brian - what it must have been like for her that very first day: emaciated with two small children in tow and one in her arms. Seeing that gladsome woman now, recalling what a state she had been in, he could not help but feel a sense of gratitude towards Bertie despite his own humiliation. Though prone to sleep during the lengthy sermons during the Sunday Meetings, when Bertie spoke he was the picture of attention - he did not care so much for what she said (negligible tripe about the mercy and grace of her God) but he liked the way her mouth moved, the way her eyes lit with some internal passionate fire. He had assumed, upon learning of her rank of Sergeant Major that it functioned merely as something of an honorarium - a title bestowed on her, as a woman, to encourage the participation of other women - but the more he came to know her the more he realized her rank was earned through endurance testing, unceasing hard work. Not that he was spared from a similar fate; for there always seemed more work to do in a single day than hands enough to complete it in a week. It seemed that the tireless efforts of Bertie and Jim Reed were contagious to those immediately around them - Jet found himself working much beyond what was required of him, and, after a few weeks time, Jim declared there was no better assistant he had ever had in as far as willingness to perform any ask for task was concerned. Still, Jet never forgot Jim as a competitor - though Jim had been content to let the issue lie where it had initially fallen. It was an unseasonably warm late February morning before he would broach the subject again during their dinner break.

"So, we are back up on the roof of the Women's House this afternoon." Jet stretched his long body out on a pile of fat burlap sacks warmed by the sun.

"Aye, Da says a storm is coming soon and we need to finish those patches before it hits." Jim replied, soaking up the last of the soup with a crust of bread.

"Ah, why must the sun only last for so short a time?" he twisted his body to face Jim. "They say in Barbados the sun shines the whole year through and the water is as warm as a bath even in winter."

"Then move to Barbados." Jim replied mirthlessly, watching the O'Brian children run about the square after each other.

"We could do it you know. Move to Barbados. Between the pair of us I imagine we could make a success of it."

"Ah, nay. I would never be happy there."

"Aemon! Charlotte! Come over here and help your mother." Bertie called to the children from somewhere beyond their sight. The pair ran towards the voice. From Jim's face Jet could see he was well lost.

"I've often wondered, have you given up on her affections?" Jet ventured.

"No. I could never, not until the very day she became another man's bride. And even then I imagine they will linger on. I've loved her all my life and most of hers - it's all I know by now." Jim's tone was resigned, it seemed he had given the subject a good deal of thought.

"Then why do you not fight me for her?"

"And what good would that do? It's her choice. The very best I could hope for in competing with you was she would not despise us both for it." Jim stared blankly at the bustling square. "I take it then, that you are no longer indifferent as you once were?" Jet lay back, letting the sun warm his face. He sighed.

"No. For your sake I wish I could say I were. For my own sake I wish it. I have tried to deny it, even to fight it by pure force of will - but there's nothing for it. It grows by the day."

"I can't say I approve of it - I cannot say anyone will - but I understand it better than anyone else. I won't stand in your way." Jet sat up to face him, a serious look upon his face.

"I doubt I could say that were our positions reversed. You are a far better man than I."

"As if that were ever in question." Jim looked at Jet with a smirk.

"Well, what about Sarah, then? She's a beauty and I know you are fond of the children."

"Aye, Sarah is a fine woman. But it's not as though I can stop my affections for one woman and turn them on another at the drop of a hat. Besides, I cannot see it working."

"And why not? She is still a young woman and you are of similar temperament. You cannot tell me the children would be too great a burden on you? Or is her former profession not wiped as cleanly away as you say?" Jet sneered.

"It's not what you think, it would be unfair to her and the children to burden her with a roving man. Come next Autumn I will be departing for Glasgow to study medicine. From there I intend to serve the Salvation Army as a traveling doctor and teacher. It would be far too much to ask a woman with children to accompany me on such a journey when she should be settled. Besides, I doubt she would have me."

"And why do you say that?"

"There have been others, much better suitors, and she has turned each offer down. Apparently, she decided not to wed any man after the death of her husband."

"Ah, so she was married then?"

"Yes, she was. To the father of Aemon and Charlotte. I believe he was called Patrick. From what I've gathered he was a good man and a fine husband to her. They married very young, without a thought of how they would provide for a family. Then Aemon was born and Charlotte was on the way and they found themselves in need of money. In those days there was a strike at the steel mill and the owner brought in Irish workers to fill the vacant positions. Patrick was scraping the slag from the vat when the platform below him gave way. There was nothing left of him to even bury. Sarah knew less English then than now, but even had she been able to speak it fluently she found there were no jobs for Irish women - not in that town. She decided to try her luck in London but found no employment to be had in any reputable place. With the children wasting in her arms she had no choice but to turn to a man who was willing to loan her money at high interest. When the time came to repay she had still been unable to find work so he offered her a choice - debtor's prison or to work the debt off in the brothel. But the more she worked the more her debt seemed to grow." Jim paused for a moment. "I suppose I don't need to tell you the rest; you are well aware of it." Jet needed no further reminder. The women most amenable to accepting Lady Cox's proclivities were either of a similar mind to her or desperate enough for the large sum she offered to defer their revulsion. Mrs. O'Brian had been very much the latter, even refusing the Lady's proposal multiple times. But Lady Cox only offered more - said she liked her dark hair - and, eventually, Mrs. O'Brian was purchased. It had seemed such an inconsequential thing at the time; a simple part of the evening's entertainment. Jet could not stomach it. It was one thing to buy a few hours of diversion, but quite another to haggle over the price of a starving woman with three mouths to feed at home - that she had even had the will to reject the first few offers only made the concept worse. Still, revolting as the thought was, it was not as though she had been forced. Her story was pitiable, even tragic; but if not for them she would likely still be living it. It provided him a great deal of consolation when framed in that manner; though he guessed giving voice to such a line of thought would almost certainly end with him on the ground. Jet looked to the sky, searching for an escape from the subject at hand. One readily presented itself in the form of of a long line of thick, dark clouds billowing on the horizon.

"I suppose we'd best return to our work before that storm rolls in." he suggested. Jim examined the sky.

"Aye, we won't have much time before that monster comes in. Your work will get its test tonight."

That following Sunday Rev. Smith led the meeting. It was all Jet could do to remain awake. No amount of passionate preaching or loud intonation on the preacher's part could hold his attention. He found his eyes roving the room finally resting upon their favorite subject - those little lips mouthing the scripture verses as they were recited. Suddenly, he felt a slight tug on his shoes. He looked down to see two small, unpracticed hands delicately attempting to tie his shoelaces together. He smiled to himself, nonchalantly crossing his leg over the other so the undone laces now were too far to reach each other, thus foiling the attempted prankster. After meeting had ended he caught up with the culprit in the square.

"Ah, here is the criminal mastermind now!" he declared, lifting laughing Aemon up by the forearms. "Quickly! I need a policeman before he escapes."

"I'm a policeman!" cried his sister enthusiastically. Jet lowered the boy to the ground where he held out his hands to the girl. "You're under arrest." she said slapping invisible manacles on his wrist. "I sentence you to five years hard time!" She led her brother over to a hay pile where he pantomimed breaking rocks with a pickax. "Ok, that's enough - my turn!" She looked expectantly at Jet.

"Ah do I see another trouble maker- what?" He felt a gentle hand on his back. He looked to see Bertie smiling tenderly at him.

"Children, would you please excuse us - I need to speak with Mr. Moore a moment." The girl giggled, took her brother's hand, and the two ran off across the square.

"How is the roof holding up?" Jet asked.

"It bore the storm well. We're grateful for all your help with the work this season."

"We? Are you grateful?" Jet replied archly.

"Yes, I am glad you decided to stay with us. It has been a Godsend." Jet smiled with that self-assured air that was always known to pique Bertie.

"Strange that he should choose to send me."

"If you wish to annoy me then I shall go." She said turning to leave, her nose stuck in the air. Jet headed her off in a few steps.

"Aw come on now Bertie, I was only having a tease." She ducked by him but not before he could hook her arm. "Hey, listen."

"Yes?" She replied coyly.

"We both have the day off - would you like to accompany me on a walk through Regent's park?"

"I suppose that would be agreeable."

"The we'd best be off before we waste any more daylight."

The pair walked the paths of Regent's Park for hours, little noting how often they retraced their steps. It seemed they spoke of everything and nothing. By late evening a light snow had begun to fall, glittering in the lamplight. Bertie stalled at a lamp for a moment, looking Jet over.

"I shall never be used to seeing you outfitted in such a manner." she finally concluded.

"I had wondered when you would mention that. Are you telling me I look a clown?"

"A clown by the very definition of the word - for I could not distinguish you from any common man by clothing alone. But your mien belies such an assumption. The affect is incongruent."

"So you prefer me in my hat and tails?"

"I suppose they do suit you better." she answered with a slight smile.

"You know, I had meant to mention before: during our last walk you mentioned atoms. I regret to say I know few women who are even aware of the existence of such things - save for Philomena." Jet said by way of inquiry.

"I read." she looked at him with mild offense.

"Yes, but clearly not the types of things that typically interest a woman."

"It is true, the common Gothic novel or romantic verse never could hold my attention. I enjoy reading about those things that further my appreciation for God and His creation." More mention of God - it seemed the woman and the subject were an inseparable pair. Jet took another tack.

"When do you even find the time?"

"Usually on my days off, when the weather is too foul for a trip to Hyde Park to speak I typically walk to Mudie's and spend the day among the stacks."

"Ah! So that's where you go to! I had wondered."

"I am almost surprised you never followed me to find out."

"You think I am so desperate for your company that I would resort to such tactics?"

"Yes." she smiled coyly.

"You flatter yourself."

"Do I? You requested it specifically."

"And you accepted. I hope that means you have forgiven me?" Jet's eyes searched her face for the answer.

"I told you it is not for me to forgive. But my grief has begun to ebb and my anger with it."

"Then am I back in your good graces?"

"Were you before?" She raised her eyebrows in mock surprise at the idea. Jet turned away in frustration, he had not gone more than a step when he felt the pressure of her hand on his arm. "I'm sorry. The path is a bit slippery." Jet smiled warmly as he patted her hand.

"I do not believe you for a second."

"You may believe as you wish, your boots were made for such weather. Mine are far less forgiving." she defended.

"Well, if you truly require my support you may have it... and if you do not, you may still have it." he offered her his arm. Her hand radiated warmth on the spot where it rested.

The sky had darkened considerably by the time they reached the south bridge. "Oh, look at the ducks!" she cried out, rushing to the rail - her face bright as an excited child's. Jet could not help but smile as he watched her gleefully beaming at the paddling waterfowl. She looked to him, her normally ruddy skin was pale and tinged lightly purple from the cold but for the rosey spots on her cheeks. The snow seemed to give that skin a crystaline, almost otherworldly, element to it. But it was her eyes and lips which arrested his attention. Those great dark eyes framed with a think black fringe which the snowflakes clung to shone brightly in the dark night. Her lips were red as a rosebud from the exertion of walking, the snow leaving small droplets of water upon them. "I suppose it's silly of me to make such a fuss, but I did not expect to see them when the weather was this cold." Jet looked down at the ducks when a reflection in the water caught his attention. He looked to the sky.

"Bertie, look at that moon!" In the distance the waxing moon hung silent and yellow among the shimmering stars. "What was that song? The young may moon is beaming love."

"The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love." She added, taking the lead while he trippingly followed:

"How sweet to rove,

Through Morna's grove,  
>When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!<br>Then awake! - the heavens look bright, my dear,  
>'Tis never too late for delight, my dear,<br>And the best of all ways  
>To lengthen our days<br>Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!"

The final stanza seemed to hang in the air even after the words had left; Jet felt as though at that moment his heart might burst from his chest, he took both of her hands in his - facing her, the words came almost without his bidding.

"Bertie, I have to say something to you."

"Jet-"

"Please, let me say it or I fear I might lose my nerve." Jet, the motion independent of his cognitive thought, stroked her round cheek gently with his gloved hand. She seemed momentarily startled by the gesture, but, instead of swatting his hand away he felt her lean into his caress. "Bertie, when I thought you were lost to me, I felt like I had lost some part of myself that I had never known was integral until it was gone. I missed you." She let his hand cup the lower line of her cheek, he leaned in and kissed her snow moistened cheek. "I missed you so very much." his lips brushed her forehead. "Bertie, I should never want to be without you so long as I live." he pressed his lips to hers. They were soft, supple - he felt himself, his body, his whole being, enveloped in that kiss as though nothing else in the world existed. He felt her body, warm and soft against his, held tightly in his arms. If he could have this moment forever he should want for nothing more. But for one thing... He loosened his embrace and felt her arms slide from around his neck in response - he had not even fully realized they had been there.

"Bertie, I love you more than anyone or anything in this world. I know it may be some time before I can ask this properly, but when the time does come would you consider becoming my wife? You don't have to answer now, but I would ask that you at least consider-" he was caught off guard by another kiss. He looked down into Bertie's radiant face.

"When the time comes I will gladly marry you." she spoke the words with no hesitation. A third and fourth kiss were quickly added.

"We should be heading back if I am to speak to your father tonight." he said still holding Bertie close. "But I don't want to let you go just yet."

"I know." she murmured, her face buried in the front of his shoulder. "But were we to remain this way until we wished to separate, we should freeze to death." He stroked her bonneted head.

"Ah, my Bertie, always the clever one." She pulled back from him and grinned, those eyes flashing with mischief.

"Well, one of us has to be." He kissed her on the forehead.

"Alright, let's go home." He extended his arm to her and she slid her hand through the crook. It rested there, so like it belonged that it was a part of himself. They made their way down the path.

"You know, I really do pity you." Bertie said.

"Oh, and why is that?"

"You fell in love with a headstrong woman."

"And you with an unstable gentleman. No one should envy us in our plight."

"That is true."

"That we should not be envied?"

"No. That I love you, Jet."

The pair returned to the Reed House well into the nine 'o clock hour half delirious in their happiness. A somber visage greeted them when they opened the door - that of Rev. Smith reading his Bible at the table by the light of a single candle.

"Father! What are you doing up so late?" Bertie asked, astonished.

"Bertie, please go up to your room. I need to speak with Mr. Moore in private."

"Yes, father." She smiled at Jet but obediently climbed the stairs to her room.

"Have a seat." the older man stated. Jet took the chair left of the Reverend. He waited patiently for the elder man to speak yet the only response that came was the sound of pages being turned every few minutes. Jet began to wish heartily to flee this uncomfortable silence for his room. "Have you paid your penance yet?" the words were so sudden and so strange he did not fully comprehend them.

"I'm sorry?" Jet stammered.

"Have you paid your penance yet?" the man repeated in measured tones.

"I'm afraid I don't understand your question."

"You have spent the past month and a half trying to pay off your sins by your works like a Papist. So I ask you now - have you paid your penance?"

"I haven't been trying to pay off anything by works!" Jet objected. Rev. Smith raised his head from his book - there was a fire in his eyes Jet had never seen before.

"Don't take me for a fool. It is human nature to attempt to mediate guilt through charitable deeds, there is not one among us who doesn't recognize that you chose to remain with us out of guilt for the death of Miss Geraldine Foxham. And I ask you now, do you feel that you have paid off that debt?"

"If that is what I have been doing than yes, I suppose I have." he answered sardonically, irritated by this line of questioning.

"Then why do you continue to remain with us?"

"Sir, I am in love with your daughter and I wish to marry her." Jet pronounced boldly.

"And does she feel the same?" Rev. Smith further interrogated.

"Yes, I believe she does."

"I am sorry for that."

"And how do you mean?" Jet could feel his temper flaring.

"Only that I can scarce think of a more unsuitable match - I should rather she live and die as an old maid than be bound to a man such as yourself." Jet was as much stunned by this proclamation as he was furious but the old man was not finished. "You are a man of the Devil himself: sinful, slovenly, and evil at heart. No man is beyond redemption; but to surrender my daughter to a man who is not redeemed but who revels in his base ways would be against my responsibilities as her father. And what world would she live in? Do you truly intend to bring a woman of her nature into the world of the nobility?"

"I hadn't really considered-"

"That is correct!" Rev. Smith interrupted. "You had not considered it. She would at best be regarded as an oddity and at worst a creature to be derided and mocked. Or do you intend to leave that world and live with us?"

"No. The company is dependent on me, I cannot leave it. Nor would I wish to of my own accord."

"So, you are asking to take my daughter away from her family, from her ministry, from all she has built; to live where she will be derided for being an upstart."

"She's the daughter of a Curate! It's an acceptable match on rank."

"Aye, but not on breeding, not on manners. I never raised her as a pampered pet the way most do. She is a true soldier of the Salvation Army; not a doll to sit on a shelf and collect dust. To be trotted out for company to see and admire!"

"Do you think I don't know that?" Jet was near shouting now. "Do you think I don't know it is an unsuitable match? That I don't see all my own failings and faults magnified a thousand-fold in the light of her brilliance? Do you think I don't see the difficulty ahead of us even if I have not addressed every coming issue? But I will tell you this Rev. Smith: I do love Bertie am I will marry her no matter what the cost or how long the wait." The Reverend sat in silence for a few minutes looking at his book. He turned the page.

"I have little doubt you truly believe what you say. To force Bertha to reject you would only serve to drive a wedge between my daughter and myself. And I still might lose her to you for you are both of an obstinate temperament - not inclined to follow sense when it contradicts you but to rebel against it. I doubt I should live long enough to outlast your combined will to defy me. So I will indulge you. If, in one year, you prove your constancy is true and not merely the result of a temporary passion, and she still wishes to wed you, I will give my consent."

"Thank you sir. Is that all?" Jet said, raising himself from the chair.

"No, you've had a letter. I have not read it but I can guess as to its contents." Rev. Smith handed Jet a small envelope from the back of his Bible. On the front, in fine black letters read two words "Arthur Wyndham". Jet felt his world, that world he had spent two months so carefully constructing, come crashing down around him. Surely, he had not thought he could go on living in this manner forever, yet he had never tangibly considered that he would be leaving except as a distant, half-formed concept of some unnamed future date. He reread the contents to be sure. "What news from home?"

"My sister and Brother-in-Law will be stopping in London on their way home from Italy. They intend to meet me at the Hotel in two days and then we shall return home together."


	13. Chapter 12

"Woah!" the coach driver called out. Jet felt the wheels slow to a stop as the coach reached the front doors of the Hotel. Even now it seemed as though the events of the past two months, even those of earlier that morning, had occurred in another lifetime - now he found himself waking from that vivid dream and returning to his own world. The coach shifted with the dismount of the driver. "Mr. Moore, we have reached our destination." the man called rapping twice on the door.

"Thank you." Jet stepped down and gave the driver his pay. A footman looked him over dubiously. It was only then that he realized he must look quite a sight in his shabby, ill-fitting homespun clothes - not to mention the general filth and grime common to a laborer which clung to every inch of his flesh. The servant was ill-able to disguise his horrified stare as this unkempt tramp approached the entryway. "Lord Chester Jenkins Moore - I believe you have my bags in storage." Jet spoke the words in the cool tones of the aristocracy; as though his outlandish appearance were something to be of so little consequence that it should be far beneath the notice or remark of any man. The footman stared incredulously at Jet for a moment. "Is there a problem? If not, I should like to retire to my room at once." Another footman appeared beside the first. The two stood discussing the situation in whispered tones and occasionally pointing at him as though he were some oddity. After what seemed an interminable length of time the second footman left, returning with the Hotel Manager some minutes later. Jet did his best to appear incensed by the situation even as he found it near impossible not to burst from the general hilarity of the scene.

"May I help you?" the Manager asked warily.

"Yes, I am Lord Chester Jenkins Moore III - I sent a message that I would be arriving today and I must say, I find the service here quite below the standard I have been accustomed to at this establishment. If it would please you I should like to be shown to my room immediately." Jet replied in clipped tones. The manager squinted at Jet closely, examining each feature of his young face for comparison. Jet smirked as he watched the horror of recognition dawn on the face of the other man.

"Sir! I am very sorry we have delayed you so. Adams!" the manager addressed the footman. "Please show Lord Moore to his room."

"Yes, sir."

Finally alone in his room, a hot bath drawn, Jet opened his bags in search of proper clothing. What he found did not particularly surprise him, though he did feel a certain dismay for the classlessness of the display. There, folded neatly, were the thickly sliced ribbons which had once been his clothes. He ran his fingers through the torn fabric shreds - Lady Cox was nothing if not thorough - not even a stocking had escaped her wrath. He sighed and rung for a maid. A few hours and an urgent message to his solicitor bought him a tan leisure suit and flat cap - a style more befitting Arthur than himself - still, at least he would be presentable until more suitable clothing could be purchased. Had he ever thought to retie the threads he had severed with the Cox family this final act sealed his resolve to be entirely divorced from them. Even Arthur would fall against them - vindictive passions made for poor business partners. Such troubles would keep until tomorrow, Jet concluded, a wave of exhaustion sweeping over him. He tucked himself under the smooth covers of his bed and slept more soundly than he had in weeks.

The following afternoon came far too quickly and with it a letter informing Jet of his party's arrival and an invitation to an early afternoon tea in the parlor. Properly scrubbed, shaved, and in his pressed suit Jet finally began to feel himself again. He tugged at the jacket hem out of habit. A package on the mantle caught his eye. It was rectangular in shape, covered in brown paper, and tied with twine - no doubt left with the mail but he had been far to distracted by Arthur's missal to notice it. Taking it in his hand he deftly removed the twine and tore the paper to reveal a worn book cover: The Tennant of Wildfell Hall. A slip of paper slid from under the cover, fluttering to the floor. He picked it up and examined the neat handwriting: "For when you miss me. Bertie" He allowed a wry smile - it would be presumptuous were it not so accurate. The world he now occupied was in its very nature so different from hers as to seem completely divorced from it. His memories of his time among the Reeds and Smiths were so different from his current concept he had not even had the capacity to miss them. He held the worn fabric cover of the book close to his chest for a moment, embracing the sudden deep ache inside his chest. He shook his head; she was a cruel cruel woman to make him hurt so - surely she must know what she had done! He took the book to the armchair and sat to read, yet none of the lines his eyes fell upon seemed to reach his mind. He thought about what she must be doing. It was only just past dinner - likely she took it with the women at the house. Jim Reed would have been by with the deliverables. He smiled as he remembered that first day he had accompanied Jim on his rounds, how startled Bertie had been to see him about - dressed in the garb of a laborer, of all things! Likely, she was bustling about Cheapside in her blue uniform trying to organize the events of the week. Without his realizing it, an hour passed without him having turned a single page. A knock at the door startled him from his reverie.

"Lord Moore, your party awaits your company in the parlor." a deep voice intoned. Jet glanced at the clock - he was late by a quarter of an hour!

"Please convey my apologies and tell them that I will join them presently." Jet called to the door. He quickly wrestled his coat onto his shoulders and opened the door. "Artie!" he cried out. The tall man stood, grinning, in the doorway.

"How do you do, mate? Did you miss me?" the two men clapped their arms about each other in a brotherly embrace.

"How do I get along without you, Artie?" Jet grinned.

"From what I hear, very poorly. How exactly did you manage to accidentally fall into the Thames?"

"It's a long story that is not improved by the retelling." Jet answered stonily.

"Ah, so drop it then?" Arthur replied knowingly.

"If you would." Jet looked his friend over: his skin possessed a new, tanner hue and he appeared to have added a few pounds to his frame. "Italy seems to have agreed with you." Arthur flashed his most debonair smile.

"And England you it would seem, though how an English winter could do so is beyond me. Perhaps it is just my memory playing tricks but I don't quite remember you being quite so sinewy. At least you have finally obtained some fashion sense." Jet had not even considered that the work of the past month would be readily apparent on his form.

"It is only temporary, my clothes met with the wrath of a woman scorned." Jet countered suggestively. Arthur responded with raised eyebrow,

"Ah, don't tell me you had the temerity to invoke the rage of Lady Cox."

"I did and I have. My only regret in the matter is that I did not secure my suitcases before leaving."

"She'll never forgive you for it."

"Of that I am certain." Jet replied with a grin. "But it's a bloody bad game to play business with a hedonist. Their fortunes turn with their tastes and no investment is worth the censure that is certain when disgrace finally visits itself upon them." Arthur seemed to consider this point.

"I gather you recommend I cut all ties?" he frowned. "Pity, she was a delicious little devil. But it is done - I'll contact my solicitor when we return home."

"Are Elizabeth and Miss Mason about?" Jet asked eagerly.

"Regrettably, Miss Mason had to return home once we got into port - Frederick Danvers took ill with influenza and she was anxious to be by his side. Elizabeth is in the Parlor; she's been a bit tired lately." his eyes twinkled knowingly. Jet caught the meaning instantly.

"You can't mean-?"

"Ah but I do."

"When do you think...?

"August or September, the doctor said." Arthur beamed. Jet leaned against the wall, a hand to his head.

"Artie, you're going to be a father! I can't believe it. Congratulations! I cannot express my happiness for you both."

"Trust me, mate, it couldn't even compare with a fraction of my own. Now come on, the mother will be cross if we keep her waiting much longer."

Elizabeth sat quietly at the tea table. The sun streaming in from the window set her blond hair with an angelic glow. Her eyes rested on her hands, folded neatly on her slightly protruding stomach, her smile one of gentle contentment. The very picture of future motherhood, Jet thought on beholding her. The rustling of their footsteps at the entryway broke her reverie, she looked up to see both her husband and brother, brimming over with excitement as children on Christmas morning. "Oh Arthur! You told!" she cried with an adorable pout. Arthur leaned down to bestow a kiss on her cheek.

"I couldn't help it, my love. I have never been so transcendentally happy in my entire life." he answered, taking his seat next to her.

"I am so happy for you." Jet gave his sister a kiss on her other cheek and took his seat.

"You will be an Uncle twice in one year." Elizabeth replied.

"Twice? Oh yes, Philomena. Has there been any word?" Elizabeth answered with a perplexed look.

"Yes, she had a girl a few weeks ago. Did you not receive the news? I would have thought you would have heard even before we did." Jet searched for an explanation.

"No, I'm sorry, I didn't hear of it at all. What did they name her?"

"Her name is Emily May Norbert."

"Pleasant enough, if a bit pastoral, less ostentatious than I expected."

"I would expect that is Roger's influence." Arthur interjected, in reference to Philomena's husband.

"I imagine so." Jet agreed with a nod.

"How are you doing, my brother?" Elizabeth asked, taking Jet's hand in hers. "We heard you had an accident and were terribly ill. We were very worried."

"Yes," Arthur agreed. "Elizabeth wanted to come home immediately on hearing the news - she and Miss Mason both - we sent a telegraph to your parents to tell them of our change in plans but they wouldn't hear of it. Your father insisted we finish our stay - he said he would keep us informed if there was a turn for the worse. Confidentially, we still opted to come home as early as we could manage without invoking his ire." An image of Arthur and Ingrid pacing about, fervently planning how to immediately return home while Elizabeth sat reading the telegraph - the idea warmed his heart. He had been far from abandoned by those he loved. Still, the incubus of the subconscious Philomena's words haunted him. They had wanted to return, but they had been held back - and he had been mortally ill. How very different things would have been had they followed through! If it had been their concerned faces he had awoke to rather than those of the Reeds and Smiths. He was not sure whether to curse his father or be grateful for his elder's cold-blooded ways. Jet supposed the man would repent of his decision soon enough. He smiled in that sphinx-like manner of one who holds tightly to a earth shaking secret.

"I will not lie, my circumstances were quite dire for a time. But, I have recovered entirely; as you can easily discern for yourselves." Jet reported.

"May I ask what happened?" Elizabeth further entreated.

"It's rather embarrassing. I had imbibed in a few drinks and simply slipped on a patch of ice while crossing the bridge. I lost my balance and, unable to catch myself, went over the balustrade into the river." Jet spun the lies as easily as if they had been truth. "It was something of a miracle that I was able to swim to shore; though I have no recollection of doing so."

"I am so thankful there were people about to tend to you. I can't imagine what would have happened otherwise." Elizabeth fretted.

"Fortunately, that is a scenario we need not consider." Jet replied, patting her hand. "But now is not the time to focus on the past, not when there is so much joy in the present."

"Hear hear!" Arthur exclaimed raising his tea cup in the motion of a toast.

"Have you discussed names for the child.?" Jet asked offhandedly.

"Well, we did consider Chester were it a boy..." Elizabeth started.

"But then we thought two cousins named Chester so close in age would only lead to confusion. So we are considering Cederic or Henry, instead." Jet could not miss the implication. "Abigail for a girl, of course - no other name could be as fitting." Arthur finished, not for one moment taking his eyes from his bride excepting for a moment to prognosticate regarding Jet's progeny. In his entire life, Jet could not recall Arthur ever being so completely and utterly euphoric.

The group left the hotel for the train station within the hour. The evening star had only just appeared on the horizon when they arrived at their destination. "You will be staying with us for the night, mate?" Arthur asked as they stood on the platform.

"Oh, please say you will, Jet!" Elizabeth begged taking both his hands in hers.

"I will do as you request." Jet acquiesced with a fraternal smile. "Only I need to call on Lord Danvers first."

"It is far too late for a social visit!" Elizabeth protested. "Surely it will keep until the morning."

"I am aware, but I fear it is something that should not be delayed any further than it already has been." Jet answered. Elizabeth made to protest further but Arthur placed a hand upon her shoulder and, giving her a knowing look turned his eyes to his friend.

"Then we shall see you soon. Good luck, mate." he added. Jet watched the pair walk away, Arthur's arm protectively wrapped around Elizabeth's shoulders.

His coach arrived at the Estate of Lord Danvers half an hour later. He rung for the Butler who arrived promptly at the door. "I'm sorry sir, I know this is highly unusual but I find I need to request an audience with Lord Danvers."

"Who is it?" Lord Danvers called from inside.

"It is Lord Moore, sir. He requests an audience." the Butler answered.

"Ah! Send him in, send him in." the voice boomed. Jet was scarcely through the door before he was swept up by Lord Danvers.

"My boy you gave us quite a scare!" Danver proclaimed, setting Jet down he looked him over, still enthusiastically gripping Jet's upper arms. "But you look no worse for the wear. It is good to see you!" the large man embraced Jet again. "Potter! Please inform Miss Mason of Lord Moore's arrival." Danvers more declared than spoke the orders to the Butler. He turned to Jet, his eyes all a twinkle. "She's been anxiously awaiting word of your arrival. I imagine she'll be very eager to see you. But please, let us have a seat in the Library." He ushered Jet to that familiar room. Jet took a seat on a chair just aslant of the couch. Danvers attempted to sit but was instantly up again, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. "How was your journey?"

"It was uneventful but generally pleasant." The door clicked open. "Ah, Miss Mason!" Lord Danvers declared. "Come, see who has come to visit."

"Lord Moore!" Ingrid exclaimed, a broad smile lighting her face. Jet stood.

"It is good to see you Miss Mason." Jet said with a bow.

"I'll just leave you two to speak." Danvers said knowingly, exiting the room. The pair stood in awkward silence for a moment. Finally Jet gestured to a chair. The two sat quietly while Jet searched for the proper words. Ingrid smiled at him nervously.

"How is Freddie?" Jet asked awkwardly.

"Oh! He is much improved. He should be up and about the house in the next day or two." she replied. They lapsed into silence.

"I'm sorry, I had this all planned out before I arrived, but it seems much more difficult to say with you here in front of me." He took a deep breath. "I suppose the crux of it all comes down to one question: Are you, in any way, related to Lord Danvers?" Ingrid seemed puzzled by the question, she tilted her head to the right slightly as if attempting to decipher the meaning of such an odd inquiry.

"No, his wife was my Godmother, but he and I share no common relation."

"I suspected as much. I apologize for this unusual line of questioning but I must venture one further." She nodded in assent. "When you said there was a man here whom you preferred, you were not referring to me, am I correct?" Ingrid appeared startled by the forwardness of the question; it was now she who was at a loss for words.

"I am... fond... of you." she chose carefully. "But... you are correct. I am sorry, I cared for you very much. But-"

"But you have loved another for far longer. Miss Mason, I did not come here to accuse you of any wrong doing. If there is shame to be had on any person's part it is mine. I knew you did not feel anything more than friendship for me and I for you, but I pursued you regardless because it was a prudent match and well supported by our families. I know this is difficult but I am afraid I must end our courtship." Jet spoke in tones gentle yet firm in their resolve. "Yes?" he asked, reading a question aching in Ingrid's large blue eyes.

"I know it is impertinent to make such a request..." she ventured nervously.

"Do go on; I believe I have already set the standard fairly high for that today."

"May we continue to be friends?" she offered meekly. Jet relaxed, a smile crossed his face.

"Yes." he laughed. "Yes, we may continue to be friends. I would be glad for it." Ingrid looked as though a heavy weight had been lifted from her shoulders, her face a picture of pure relief.

"Thank you - I should have hated to lose your friendship."

"And I yours." He took her by the hand, "Now, shall we tell Lord Danvers the bad news?"

"Oh! He will be crushed!" Ingrid exclaimed. "He had so hoped for our union."

"Not so much as his actions might have led you to believe, I suspect." Jet suggested.

"Whatever can you mean?" Ingrid looked at him quizzically. Jet rang for the Butler.

"Potter, could you please ask Lord Danvers to join us; Miss Mason and I have finished our discussion and desire his company." Potter exited the room, returning only moments later with the jovial Danvers beaming at his side.

"I suppose congratulations are in order?" Lord Danvers exclaimed clapping Jet on the back.

"Only for you, I'm afraid, if you will take them." Jet answered somberly. The large man looked confused at Jet's cryptic statement.

"How do you mean?"

"Miss Mason and I have decided to end our courtship." Jet answered. Lord Danvers round face, only a moment ago so very jolly, was crestfallen.

"W-why?" he stammered. "It was such a fine match!"

"It was a very fine match, and we are well suited. But I believe there to be a much finer match with a man whom she loves dearly who, I believe, loves her in return." Jet could not miss the way Ingrid's face glowed with joy at this assertion. "I also believe that you should never think your historical fireplace tales ignored - particularly the one regarding the quick-witted, but large nosed, French cadet that pined for his cousin who was married to another man. What was his name - DeBergerac? It's a pity he died never having revealed his true feelings, even after she was widowed! I should hate to witness such a cruel fate among my own friends." he said pointedly. "Anyhow, I thank you for your hospitality but the hour grows late and I really must be going." He turned and strode out of the room, leaving a bewildered Lord Danvers and Lady Mason in his wake. 'If she is not the future Lady Danvers by tomorrow,' Jet thought, stepping into the carriage with a wry smile, 'then he does not deserve her.'


End file.
